THE BUTTERCUP

THE BUTTERCUP

BY FIONA CUMMINGS

 

Sitting here on the mid green grass, still moist from the early morn dew, surrounded by bright yellow buttercups and the odd nettle at the sides of the vast field I have found myself once again. I love coming here. In the distance, I can see the meadow with its cattle grazing, with their funny curly tails. The contrast of the black and white, against the greenery and beautiful summers blue sky, is so picturesque.

To my right, is a babbling brook, bursting with the rain from some days ago.

And to my left are wild berry bushes and forever skies!

It’s beautiful here, and I don’t care  about the damp on the ground. I bring with me a small tartan picnic rug, one of those with the waterproof bottoms, which barely keep you dry.

I have my flask of coffee and my slice of homemade cake, of whatever takes my fancy of that day to make on that particular baking day.

I feel free here. Only interrupted by the odd brave bird, who sits close enough from me to watch where I am making crumbs. Leaving a trace of evidence of human existence. AN yet far enough to be safe.

 I deliberately make more mess than necessary, to make  sure my little friends have a treat.

I know there are berries here for them to eat, but I smile to myself and say if I was the bird, and I was given berries all summer, a change of a crumb of coffee and walnut cake would not go a miss?

I don’t need to answer to anyone here. I can have my private thoughts and be who  I, want to be, I am not a  Mother to two demanding children or a maid to my Husband. I am not a slave to life and I don’t have to answer to my rather challenging boss.

I don’t need to dress in a way I feel uncomfortable and I don’t have to keep  looking at my watch to see when the next deadline has to be in by.

There are no telephones, with angry people on the other end and I can’t get a knock on the door, whether it is at home, a sales person, or someone, trying to convert me into their religion, or at work, I am not going to be asked to help a junior employee out to do a trivial task.

This is pleasure. My pleasure. Where I can turn off what Iamb expected to create for tea tonight or the dinner party in which my Husband has arranged for the weekend, without consulting me.

I can blank my real world out here and  enter a world of nature. The smells around me are so unspoiled. Even sweet.

The sounds are calming. The water bouncing over and through the large stones and the blades of overgrown grass which could not be trampled on by the odd passer-by, too close to the brook and dreaded nettles.

The cool breeze flows through my long hair, which floats around my shoulders, like wings, ready to take off.

I breathe here, I love it here.