bluebell6

- New Living Traditions -

Written on 10th May 06 in the Black Jug, Horsham. For at least 6 years I have tried to walk through the bluebell wood just north of a wonderful boozer called the Frog and Nightgown, run my a man who piloted Halifax bombers in WWII. Sometimes I start in Ifield, but this year I walked from the grand Holmbush Inn, Faygate. The Frog and Nightgown was shut when I got there, but I did I see the finest ever display of bluebells, and countless other late spring and early summer flowers; cowslips (or possibly oxlips), bugles, lesser celedines, bush vetches, white ragged robins, forget-me-nots, and many not know or identified.
Bluebells are a woodland plant and are commonly said not to grow in grass fields unless they are the site of recently cut woods. I know from seeing these woods and fields over years that bluebells do spread into horse grazed pasture. The structure of, and meaniings in, the poem grew as I stood at the bar and wrote it. I had to borrow a pen and paper, and they gave me a bloke off their food order pad, so i had some carbons and left a couple for them.
The poem was on my home page for a couple of days with the title Blue Belle Would before I added the jpeg of the draft below, and I only then noticed I had given it a title then of Blue Rung Belles

Blue Rung Belles

Promises of a wood that waves

Surfs of light with wipes of shade

Peeling bells just trying scent

Purple dancers that highlight craves

Yet myth says shrivel where hard light’s played

Yet see them when they’re grown to plain

Still green, not heeding the route that paves

Without highlights from massive naves

Just haloed colour - joyous lent

So let’s cross your woulds for

the joy we’ll gain.

From a haze of blue

With loving sent

Very rough handwritten draft of bluebell poem