healingwords: poetry for the soul

As the bluebells in northern woods start to fade I remember my walks in Warwickshire. In Crackley Woods with my parents and children, in Berkswell near my childhood home and in Wainbody Wood with my dear friend. They remain a sweet thorn of loss as the pleasure of the memories and the beauty of the scenes shared by so many is tinged with sadness that I will never share them with my parents again. 

I am heartened by the number of people sharing their beautiful photographs of bluebell woods and spreading the love of nature. As I am 1,400 miles away from my favourite woods I can only enjoy these glimpses of their beauty and dream of bluebells.  DREAMING BLUE I dream of bluebells; released in sleep from restraint of time and place, I wander free, my copse a composite of woodlands flashed before me, snapped and ether shared, bluebells to be sure the robin of flowers, secure in the awe of all who walk the swaying seas, dazzled by their beauty, a cloak of violet blue spread under trees shading green, blue like the deepening sky as the sun’s embers sliver gold, light gilding the horizon.    © 2019 Jacqueline Knight Cotterill.  All rights reserved.  

At this time of year the internet is awash with images of bluebell woods. It is heartening to see so many moved to visit the woods charmed by bluebell magic. Another year on I am still missing the bluebells, still missing my parents and our favourite woodland walk. Today I was cheered by a glorious walk on the hillsides of my village where each week a new Spring flower colours the woods. These lovely blue flowers are called 'lino azul',  blue linen, or Linen of Narbonne and they were some compensation for missing the bluebells.  LINO DE NARBONA - missing bluebells Miles away woods bloom alive as   April weaves its magic spell, uniting earth and sky as bells nod in a tapestry of green and blue. I last walked the woods in sad farewell, sorrow raw as skin scratched by thorns, I left them sleeping under Oak as  bluebells  stirred above their sun warmed bed. Miles away from Northern woods, bright light gilding spiring pines,...

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 ...

A year ago today we left my father’s funeral and went straight to the woods, the path we had all walked together, with my parents before they were too infirm and then with my own children and nieces.  It was a beautiful frosty morning, sun glinting off the crispy grass, the path through the trees lit as if it was beckoning me into my future. When a breeze blew through the woods the last of the autumn leaves started to fall, spiralling down, sprinkling the hoar air like falling stars. We jumped and ran to catch them, as we did when children. That sad but lovely day reminds of this poem. It was written some years before my parents died, when they were both ill and in pain and would feel and share each other’s burden as if their own.   Over 60 years together they were linked by more than love. Rereading the poem I am suprised by its sadness and my melancholy.  There were hard days and difficult times but what I now remember of their last few years togethe...