gotta love the nettle-age, snot coloured punk superstar of the spring!
in some rustic, bucolic fantasy he’d gather dainty lace doilie fashion around the fringes of the woods
nah round here they loiter in huge clumps on any patch of wasteland, a vibrant fresh green swathe carpet covering broken glass and rusty shopping trolleys
broken ground, nettles love to be around humans, alledgedly they came over with the Romans… rust iron, sacred to aries, god of war and this months heavenly ruler
like many masculine energies, often maligned, theres also a tender, benign side
i tend to pick them with snip scissors and holey cotton gloves… the holes not on purpose but the occasional frisson of a sting keeps you woke!
tingle-age even now, a very very mild electric shock
what shall i do with them? juice most likely? but possible pesto, fricasse?… not let them languish too long at the bottom of the fridge anyway!
blessings on the sunshine and my current freedom to roam up the cliffs… respite from the collective energy field of worry x