Bluebells

My daughter gave me a present today.

Bunched in her pink hands

so tight the tips of her nails pursed white.

She offered them to me,

face obscured by the bells;

tiny pendulous blossoms bowed

and coiled in fragrant lavender blue.

It may have been that scent.
as Manley Hopkins once said

was like faint honey,

a sweetness that

awakened the dusty web of my past.

All at once I was there,

in '53, six years old,

holding hands with Lesley.

We left the house in Dorking,

linking tiny fingers,

running towards sandstone hills

at the edge of town, air so fresh

so full of grass, cows and hay,

lingering in our noses

as we opened the gates to Glory Field.

Early in the day,

grass still moist

and our black buckled shoes would squelch

their way across the green sea.

We would use our arms to row ourselves

across to Glory Wood

while looking out for dog pirates.

Our green eyes widened,

ears listening, hearing

nothing but eerie calm of the clearing

and our hurried breaths.

Trees narrowed into a path;

sunlight peeked through their leafy canopy,

falling in pots of gold hidden

in the mass of lavender blue.

Once again we'd row ourselves

across the sea, running fingers

through long stalks, falling into the

deep flowery water, legs lost

amidst the honeyed scent.

Glory Wood began to darken;

a coolness enveloped our arms

and we'd pick some gifts for home.

Every sunday we gave our mums a present.

Bunched tightly in our pink hands,

nail tips white,

pendulous coiled petals obscuring

our red faces.

They always smiled, distant,

expression vague

but now I know;

they too remembered the bluebells.