I wonder

I gather my thoughts in a wicker basket,

cover them over and stroll into the bluebell woods.

 

Always blue. Not cold blue. Warm blue.

 

Blue as fresh air and cackling creeks.

Of the lips of creatures stopping to drink,

unguarded, just for a moment.

 

The soft carpet under my toes

wriggles with ideas,

half-formed will o’ wisps

that jump up eagerly to my pensive basket.

 

One at a time, little ones.

 

When I cannot carry any more,

I sing a song to quiet them,

lulling them to sleep,

and journey back to my desk,

pen in hand.

 

My work begins.

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Flower Power

I’m looking at a patch of bluebells,

and all I can think is

how much I want to hear them ring.

I imagine they have a soft tinkle,

rather than a bright peal.

No commanding tones here.

Just laughter. Gentle, shy.

The daffodils next to them,

hanging around far

longer than they should have,

have nothing delicate about them at all.

Each one crows at the drooping bluebells,

and blasts out like a trumpet instead.

Jazzy combinations of mockery.

Not just at the bluebells,

but at me,

for daring to think I can hear them.