Close to, the rock is mottled with colour. In the cracks are little puffs of grassy stuff. Spindly stalks bear dry flower-heads: pink thrift gone to seed. In smaller cracks, copper-green lichen grows like lace, its intricate fronds like something made, not grown.
In the grass below me are flowers of a subtle sort: purple tufts of thistles, raggy clouds of meadowsweet and, crouched at the roots of the grass, tiny tapestry-flowers of tormentil. The grass itself is laden with flower-heads of many shapes: rough rabbit-paws and velvet tails and fragile forms of trees. You can’t see any of these right away: it takes some lowering of the eyes and some slowing of the stride, and some humbling of the heart, to see the fine stitching that makes up the world.