Cow parsley, she calls it. Hollow green stems rising out above lush green grass. I had always known it as Queen Anne’s Lace. White caps of tiny flowers like little parasols, umbrellas.
The May rains have come and gone.
We take the dogs out down the lanes. They know the hawthorn and the giant rhubarb near the river: smell it all. They know every stretch of our routes – but not as well as she knows them. She is hiding something beyond the obvious. She squints at blossom, nettles in flower.
Something is buried: a secret like pollen in the air.
MW Bewick 