Bluebell WoodBy Robin Tulley
The magic of a bluebell wood a childhood memory held,
Of an age of innocence and a so much different World
We’d take our bikes and off we’d set on adventures later to recall
Of that special place, the bluebell wood, and the mystery of it all.
A purple haze on which to gaze, in wonderment and awe.
A gentle breeze embracing trees shading the woodland floor.
At first we would whisper reverently in case we broke the spell,
Of the peace and solitude and the drifting heady smell
But, this was our wood that no one else knew about.
A place to run, to jump and hide and without inhibition shout.
The Badger sets, The Rabbit burrows, the Fox’s lair we sought.
The hedgerow nests, the bubbling streams the fish we nearly caught.
Nature, in all it’s bounty embraced our childhood heads,
Planting memories in perpetuity and dreamed of later in our beds.
The dappled leaves from the shafting sun tussled gently in the breeze.
A Cuckoo’s call from some far off lea could be heard through the swaying trees.
For five minutes warring Red Indians and another the cavalry on patrol,
We played out these fanciful scenarios; to replicate our heroes was our goal.
Then, battle weary, tired and hungry we would retreat to our secret camp,
There to eat our modest sandwiches and stream chilled water drank
Those woods are still there, other generations have shared their delights,
And how I enjoyed taking my children and later their own little mites.
If they could speak, what could they tell of times in the long and distant past?
When swathes of blooms first adorned these woods unspoilt and truly vast,
Of seasons come and seasons gone of conflicts lost and won
Of peaceful times and happy times when clouds gave way to sun.
Published 'The Argus' 3rd June 2009
This page was amended on 16/07/2012