Bluebells, bluebells! (Nature poetry to raise money for the RSPB – #52weeksofnaturepoetry Week 28)

Striking violet-blue, a rich carpet

of fairy flowers

(or perhaps you’d call them witches’ thimbles)

nodding to one side,

snoozing throughout the day;

brush past

and you might smell sweet puffs

of their snores.

Take care not to remain in range

of the bells’ delicate peal –

that playful tinkling

might bring an untimely death

(at least, that’s what fairies advise).

And should you pick a bluebell,

well, those devilish forest sprites

might have you trekking eternally

through woodland groves.

If you evade such a fate, however,

you could try

turning a bloom inside out;

manage without a tear,

and there’s a chance of enticing

the one you love

deeper into your life.

Beware, though, if lies and deceit

are your native tongue:

should a bluebell wreath

be placed upon your head,

truth will become the only language

to spill from your lips.

So take heed and be mindful

around anyone you’ve ever wronged.

This poem is part of a project I’m doing to raise money for the RSPB, a UK wildlife conservation and protection charity. Being autistic, nature is often my only place of solace, and I want to do all I can to protect it. As I’m not very comfortable around other people, most of the standard ways of helping out (volunteering, social fundraisers etc) were not a good fit for me, so I came up with #52weeksofnaturepoetry, where I have to post a nature poem here on this blog each week for an entire year without fail.

If you’d like to help, please share this poem to encourage others to take joy in nature, and if you have the time and means to donate, you can do so here. Let’s help keep our wildlife wild!

(You can also become a member of the RSPB and support them month to month. Members receive Nature’s Home magazine and seasonal guides for what to look out for when out and about. Details are on their website.)

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Xylem speak

They wait silently

to trap the deep dreams of trees,

floods soon sweep them back.

 

Rooted

We see this heart and home,

smell its familiarity on each other

as if we’ve already moved in.

The post is delivered to your eyes and mine.

Our names are stout roots that weave themselves together

to become the key that opens the door.

Rooted escape

beads in my pocket, enchanted

as I steal away from the shouting, the swearing

down the road and into

the roots of the tower

that seals shut behind me

none of their spits follow me, nor

the scent of beer and sweat and piss and vomit

that has come to haunt

my waking hours

Pruning practices

I can see the roots

growing in the corners

of your eyes,

under the ground

where you think no-one will find,

and in my veins.

Oh, you hope

to hide from me, but

you don’t know

I can look inside myself.

I can cut you out

if I want to,

like a weed.

I can leave you to wither.

Would you like that?

The Stasis of Soft-scaled Wings

Hanging around beneath the canopy,

your long, green dreadlocks

dangle in the air,

sucking the moisture away from the world.

As you drink, I see the life

return to your slender body,

the colour of your skin

ripens once more

and you rise up,

reaching for humid skies.

Your soft fingers remind me

of silver-white moths

floating on the breeze towards

the light splashing down

from the stars.

Roots

Fingers digging,

the earth

close and warm.

Reaching, reaching,

ever downwards

whilst standing

high.

A beard full

of petals,

gathering golden

tears from the sun.