The envelope was like a message from the past. My daughter’s writing, from when she still relied on tracing over dots to form her letters, spelled out ‘poppies’. I opened it to find inside hundreds of tiny black dots: poppy seeds we had once gathered together and then forgotten.

We have just scattered them on the small patch of ground that we are hoping to transform into a wild-flower meadow. The seeds are at least four years old and I have no idea if they will germinate, but it is wonderful to sow them and wait and see.

Poppies are delicate and fragile, yet surprisingly resilient, and ...


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