Daisee, Daisee....

Waxing rhapsodic over a weed may be a bit much for some, but I really do adore the daisy. Not the posh developed specially for gardeners daisy but the common old lawn invader. What child hasn't draped themselves with daisy chains and crowns, dreaming of playing with the fairies at the bottom of the garden? For me they are as eggy as the poached egg flower, and don't have any of the yucky milky sap of the dandelion, even though there are no clocks to puff at. The cobbles in front of the house collect just enough dirt and earth to trap seeds and they are now sprouting daisies with a vengeance. Daisies tell me that I will soon be able to sit on the grass without getting soaked knickers. They remind me to look down and see what else is growing amongst the grass. They are potently cheerful and the fields will soon be full of them. They go as well with the lambs now as mint sauce will later. And for the boys of my era, Daisy will always mean the joys of the Dukes of Hazzard - you just can't go wrong with a daisy.