Dandelions

Days of sun and a night of heavy rain. In the morning dandelions are 

rollicking over the prim green grass, gypsy showmen swaggering round the village fete. 

I sit by the rhubarb thinking about where the vegetable garden will be. At the moment we have rhubarb and gooseberries and nettles.  None of them planted by us.  Our big golden harvest will be next year perhaps, if I ever stop reading about digging and start doing it.

Little Three is squatting in the grass examining the character of dandelions. 'A mummy one, a daddy one, a baba one, a crocodile one.' She looks up and runs towards me, scruffy yellow flowers tumbling from the turn-ups of her brother's jeans. 'I lub you mummy!' she shouts, wild hair, sticky hands. A shout to harvest and keep.