Bluebellsby Alan Morrison
for Jan Lives blue-rinsed, staid marriages engrained, Doily-stitched brows un-knit to Masefield’s And Houseman’s nostalgic fruitcake crumbs. Crystal-eyed Mave winds us down the lane Of her Irish girlhood’s buttery patois— Kisses-in-haystacks lass, buttercup-under… Grown four words to sow their own poems —‘joy’, ‘wood’, ‘spring’ and ‘flowers’—each one Summons bluebells, hidden in thought’s wood. ‘Bluebells brushed by the April balm’; ‘Bluebells twinkling in the cool dark wood’; ‘A spring wood filled with a joy of bluebells’… A bloom of old dears whose petals lose fade For blossoming moments in the shady sway Of a tree-beamed church’s creaking boughs— Bluebells, twinkling in the cool dark wood. © 2008 by Alan Morrison. All rights reserved.