After the blanket planting of rape this year, it’s extraordinary that the cones (or is it the rods?) in my eyes can still take pleasure in yellow. It would be sad not to be touched by the warm, round honesty of a buttercup. Most democratic of English flowers, it will shine for anyone, brightening the days of those who choose to look.
This morning I watched a cock French Partridge enjoying buttercup petals for his breakfast. Fastidiously turned out, this devoted husband and father was filling himself with morsels of sunshine while he patiently awaits the hatching of a clutch of red legged chicks. I thought of my breakfast and how I eat it, and it all seemed joyless compared to the polished vibrancy of buttercups consumed petal by petal in the early morning sun.