Dandelion days. There is such wild energy in the air, the weather blows from hail, through showers, to bright sunshine, and dandelions pop up everywhere. There’s old “piss-a-bed” with its fang-root biting into an abandoned cemetery memorial: the white marble one with pillars, wreaths and adoring wives.
Anywhere dandelions grow they are local; antisocial Joneses there’s no keeping up with. This rude intrusion into a display of fortune – dressed up as the pride and grief of three generations – flowers in the homeland of the great war poet from Oswestry, Wilfred Owen, who speaks from over the edge of the precipice we’re all facing now and asks: “For this the clay grew tall?”
