As Above, So Below

I looked in the grass this morning and saw this beautiful formation. It reminds me of crop circles. Did a mini Martian land in last night to give this mini-message to Earth's people? Or could it have been etched by the sun that also painted the sky blue with its spectrum rays of varied colours, that shaped the dandelions too and planted dock leaves in the ground as it waits for the long summer?

Is this the prickly weed - a variety of thistle they tell me - blown in by the gardening hantus to make gardening such a chore? I am quite laid-back by nature, and true though as they say that a garden is not made by sitting in the shade and saying "Oh, what lovely flowers!", I give the weeds a little nod for someday, who knows, someone will say they are a cure for cancer or some minor ailments of the knee. A garden is beautiful to the eye, but the weeds, they are forever.

A prickly weed, a variety of thistle, perhaps someone will tell me; but this one looks like a mandala ( so I shall call it Nelson for the while).

I looked up and caught the acer springing its blooms that put the light in the sky and rid it of the burdensome grey that hung for most days of winter.

I was in Trengganu for the harshest part of last winter, but I shall do penance when the time comes for the acer to shed its leaves, and rake them all into a pile.
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Tis May; and yet the March flower Dandelion
Is still in bloom among the emerald grass,
Shining like guineas with the sun's warm eye on--
We almost think they are gold as we pass,
Or fallen stars in a green sea of grass.
They shine in fields, or waste grounds near the town.
They closed like painter's brush when even was.
At length they turn to nothing else but down,
While the rude winds blow off each shadowy crown.
Poems Chiefly From Manuscript,
by John Clare