and flowers at my feet

we have them this far north - flowers. But shy ones, wild ones, flowers that take root by wind and tenacity and blend in with the braes, the beach, the shore path. I intend to take my 'Scottish Wild Flowers' and learn their names, I mean beyond buttercups and daisies. The rain it raineth - not everyday. In fact not for six weeks but here she comes, stitching the grey with silver, getting rid of the stench of sea-bird shit that was beginning to pervade the cliffs and stacks and smoothing down the track that was beginning to resemble the after-math of a horse and cart race in a two bit town. Here is the rain and we all nod and say the earth needed it - but I was enjoying the stink and the dust and the cracked earth and the yellowing grass and the laundry left out overnight and the scent of coconut from the gorse and the dulse coming up from the beach. Smell and having some is like living in a hot country. Unless it's the smell of grass after rain, the smell of green. mmm