In a Bluebell Wood

“I am ready!” the woodland quietly whispers.

She coyly turns her sun-dappled crown.

Revealing her translucent, dancing, slippers

And her spring-ball, lilac, gown.


There is always something magical about a bluebell wood. Perhaps because the charming flowers are so temporary, so delicate, so dependent on the season? or perhaps because they are a signal of the coming summer?  -cross fingers it comes this year.  I like the fact that there are only a few weekends, when it is possible to go and walk with them, then they are gone for another year. If ever nature threw up a lesson to seize the moment, bluebells, I think, are it!



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