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.