Belvia.
The dandelion was a radiant sun, bringing memories of the golden foods mamma put their petals in. I could see them in the way we do with beloved recollections, seeing without any image at all, only an infusion of joy. There were the breads, the risottos, accompanied by dandelion greens - as salad in early spring or blanched and cooked with garlic and chilli as the season matured. We loved them in our garden, the wild garlic too, for they grew in such abundance of their own accord. Bees loved the flowers; birds loved the seeds. Just as with the blackberry bush, nature has her quiet way of giving if we are willing to see the gifts she bestows. The humble dandelion is the gold amid the green, a little sunshine close to the earth, born to shine. It has a beauty equal to any other, with leaves to fill the salad bowl and seeds for the bellies of the birds. It is the clock of my childhood daydreams, the watercolour of long ago joy, as magical as any fairy wand.
