How come – a field of buttercups!

Buttercups in Neal\'s Yard

I was walking in the city bemoaning my fate of having to work on such a lovely spring day. Really, it should not be so. The Japanese have special holidays to look at the cherry blossoms. Now that is what I call civilised. In fact I must look up those haiku poems tonight. They are so inspired. Why don’t we have holidays to go to the bluebell woods, en masse, in awe, going oohhh and ahhh… Would that not do a lot to lift the heart of the nation! To bring the spirit of nature and a touch of wildness into our lives.

And so I was ranting on in my mind on my way to get a Tesco sandwich when I bumped into an old friend. Had not seen her for years, totally lost touch. Surprise halted us in our step. A quick checking out, a hope of recognition and then a broad smile, a hug and a simultaneous “How are you? What are you doing here?”

”I work here,” I said.

“I live just around the corner,” she said.

“Really? I didn’t know people lived here.”

“Have you got time, would you like to come up for a drink?”

“I have to be quick,” I replied, “it’s only my lunch-break, but yes I’d love a cup of tea.”

We went up, and up and then further up, on the roof. I gasped! How come! A field of buttercups!. Basho inspiration flooded me. I stepped out and danced between the buttercups.

waves of wonder moving
buttercups by the hundreds
on this tiny roof

How did they get there? Where did they come from? What useless questions. How delightful to be here in the middle of a yellow dream, a lunch-break holiday in nature wonderland in the middle of the city.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s