Vase of Flowers

A vase of weeds sits on my writing desk.

What you don't see is me, gardening in my pyjamas with no make-up on. Hair being blown by the breeze  and then made wet by a passing shower.
A gravel path being cleared of nature's plants and humans weeds. Grasses growing through lavender. Buttercups showing their faces to the sun and my thoughts turn to childhood. To giggles under the chin and yellow shadows of liking butter. The softness of the plant I called rabbit ears which spreads like rabbits conceiving. Whose touch can transport me to sitting on a sofa reading a book, curled up with a blanket of comfort. Nigella, or love in the mist , memories of a long passed away cat called Kimber lying in the sun, upside down, his paws reaching up to touch the delicate fronds. Then the pink of my Mother-in-law, Elsie, saying 'hello, remember me, you brought me from my garden to yours so we can be together'. The forget me nots never made it into the vase, but they are there.Transported very gently from the gravel path to my back garden and popped into beds with a silent wish to grow .They are tucked up with a kiss to my Grandmother, Vera, in homage to her forget me not paths of kitchen garden steps to vegetable patches. I can still remember the vivid blue growing from the cracks against the grey of the slabs as my little red shoes carefully placed their hop,skip and jumps down to the sweet peas.

Sometimes, a little display of wildness can be quite beautiful and inspiring.