Off Grid
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By Deirdre Shanahan.
It’s a sky-blue day. Fern leaves spike as I wade through. Strands of grasses and stray ears of wheat weave. Nubs of rosehips bristle on hedges. From the thick nettles bunched around my knees, I could make soup. I could use dandelions even if the blackberries are frizzled after months of sunshine. Warm days slouch as we settle in, plant and sow. Next spring, Olly says, we’ll reap the bounty. Then we’ll eat like kings.
“Hi.” He sweeps up the road on the rusty bike we f
It’s a sky-blue day. Fern leaves spike as I wade through. Strands of grasses and stray ears of wheat weave. Nubs of rosehips bristle on hedges. From the thick nettles bunched around my knees, I could make soup. I could use dandelions even if the blackberries are frizzled after months of sunshine. Warm days slouch as we settle in, plant and sow. Next spring, Olly says, we’ll reap the bounty. Then we’ll eat like kings.
“Hi.” He sweeps up the road on the rusty bike we f
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