“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!