Grasses and Flowers

The hedges have erupted and the top lawn has become a rough meadow, grass growing romantically through our outdoor chairs.  I cut it deliberately roughly, to allow the small flowers room to grow.  The grasses are long enough to produce golden seedheads, and the space is becoming a carpet of ordinary flowers; going-over dandelions, buttercups, daisies, and the small purple flower I have not yet identified.  

But the bank alongside the house - also left wild - has become a garden of hawk-weed, tight fiery yellow-red flowers on slender shaggy stems rising through the grasses.  And last night, going to close up the chickens in the last of the light, they had all closed up for the night and almost disappeared into the long grass.  

I feel strange not being able to supply images to accompany these words, as if this is only half the story.  These journals should be like scrapbooks, I think, rather than diaries or books of poems.  Perhaps after three completed and the last one started I have finally found the right formula!