dreaming of barefoot forests

when it's dry and dusty at Easter [and should be soft, misty and damp underfoot here at this time of year] the alchemist retreats into dreams 

luckily the solidago in the ditch by the road-to-somewhere else is just as vigorous as it ever was

despite the Big Dry

and despite the generous applications of weedkiller sprayed on by council workers

so i've been harvesting in passing

and have a green cauldron brewing

meanwhile felt and stitch and lovely fragments of cloth have been coaxed together in a makebelieve mossy carpet