The bluebells here are one day past their prime –

I can recall that day – their little bells turn down –


the trees breathe quiet out

like oxygen, and stand around

holding their arms up to the sky

their palms out to the sun

they seemed to have changed

places recently, or grown exuberant;

more birds than usual sing.

I know a thrush when I hear one

a blackcap and a woodpecker,

invisible they dance among the leaves.


These bluebells though,

a flood that is the essence of the wood,

are scented with a wild reminder; blue

may yet be cornflowers, sea and sky,

indigo and lapis lazuli,

but this peculiar slant on blue is blue.

This may be the final time I breathe

in woods where bluebells are the quiet earth,

are over and display their calm content

shades in the trees and songbirds and the leaves.



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