A conversation.

Grass that has grown to the height of my ears, rattles as I push through. The air is heavy this afternoon. Thunder growls away to the west, is answered by the boom of the foghorn on the Isle of May. Meadow browns, small tortoiseshell, corn buntings, grasshopper. I meet three wee boys on bikes. The youngest, the bravest says to me – ‘This is called sticky willy’, holding out a piece of goosegrass to show me. I say’ I know’. He says-‘ How do you know that?’ I say, ‘I called it that when I was your age.’ He smiles and says ‘It makes me so happy.’

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