BLUEBELLS 

Peter Woodgate 

The fragrant sound of springtime

The breeze, its echo heard in many bluebell flowers

Snaked artfully through early budding hedgerows

That eagerly awaited April showers.

 

Tiny feet came pounding

With steps that shook off winter’s caution

Eyes that saw yet led them on still, blindly

Those children so alive but sadly without notion.

 

Small hands swooping downwards

Plucking up the blooms that proudly stood

Leaving shattered stalks to freely weep

But all the crying in the world would do no good.

 

Above the laughing voices, screams could not be heard

And leaves and roots are crushed beneath the feet

Of happy children, arms all full of colour

And homeward bound to give their mum’s a treat.

 

On mantelpieces, placed in polished vases

The flowers still give out their pious scent

Whilst knowing, sadly, in the shady forest

Their very future lay with life-sap spent.

 

For a hundred years, perhaps, or even more

Local folk had thought not of that springtime splendour

“Why thank you very much,” they tell their children

As they observe a fleeting glimpse of grandeur.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate