Bluebell Wood

Bluebell Wood

You walk along the track up to the moors
above our house in springtime and in rain,
sloping from the east on winter winds
that later bring the snow and ice bound days.
But now the weather is softer in it's ways,
uncertain rays a sunshine can be felt
to warm our lagging limbs and penetrate
our hearts, soft beating, always faithfully.
I follow you now, winding through the hills,
climbing over stiles, through kissing-gates,
until on the horizon is a stand
of trees, luxuriating in the spring.
    I'd love to fuck you, if you think we should,
    upon the bluebells deep inside this wood.
Categorized as Poems

By Arthur Richardson

Very part time poem maker. Retired from paid work.

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