Do I Remember The Bluebells? Poem by Roy Ballard
Do I Remember The Bluebells?
Yes, I remember bluebells; in the month of May.
Leaves overhead, unbudding, were still thin.
The lane was mired in puddles on soft clay,
reflecting sky and swallows, cumulous,
clouds white as choir boys and us.
A timid sun lit up the haze of blue
beneath the sycamores. A covert wood,
hemmed in by ditches long, so long, ago,
was all the cover we were bedded in.
It was the season that brooks no delay:
when every flower is pressing into bud
and life is urgent to mix blood with blood.
So like a doting dog came love, full tilt,
and sent us sprawling on this bluebell quilt.
A freshness and individuality in this piece, well done Roy!
Nothing short of mesmerizing. I am so easily turned away by a forced phrase or clumsy metaphor and yet here you write with natural ease and illustration, original but not trying to be clever. The mark of a true observer of life. Clouds white as choir boys, sycamores a covert wood. Excellent..............
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/28/2024 9:17:54 PM # 1.0.0.1119
This poem about bluebells brings back such wonderful memories of holidays in the Lakes, my husband, the dogs and myself walking through a bluebell carpeted wood on the shores of Lake Windermere in spring time. Thank you RE Ballard for capturing these moments so beautifully in your poem.