MISSING BLUEBELLS



An additional consequence to the loss of my parents has been the end of my regular visits to England. I am torn between missing my cool, green North country and the warmth of my friends and the inevitable sadness of returning with no family home and parents to welcome me. As so often my mind returns to the garden, where nature and love combined to make a treasured space. In this poem I can now look back with pleasure and less sadness.  I hope next Spring I will return, the garden is gone but the woods and the bluebells await.



MISSING BLUEBELLS



I have missed the bluebells,
the spring renewal of sky painting,
brushing the warming earth,
shaking sleep from Oak woods.

Unable to return, still afraid
to face the step into a country
where roots are now cut,
where another walks the garden.

Sweeping fallen oak leaves,
bare branches greening,
wood pigeons cooing from
twigged woven nests.

Surprised by waking flowers,
nooks of shy snowdrops,
spiked forsythia bringing
sunshine into Winter rooms.

Awakened by birdsong,
blackbirds strutting,
flashing blue tits nesting,
sparrows home in beech hedge.

At the mossed path’s end,
in silver shade of birch,
gather bluebells, in homage
to your woodland grave.

Each petal, each leaf, each tree,
holds your essence, my memories,
like a drop of jewel dew
reflecting the pureness of sunlight.



© 2018 Jacqueline Knight Cotterill.  All rights reserved. 


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