Bluebells in Cumbria

The last day of April can be cruel,

lush-early the bluebells are fading.

Spring’s fervent these days but little flags

stand and wave in the wind, their last stand.

Can you tinkle the river,

can you timbre a blackbird,

can you stock-still a shiver,

will your bell soon be heard?

Hot – as if in Summer,

a field of bluebells shimmers

- this has been their time –

and together they have competed and won

for bee and butterfly, spider, the sun

warmed up their faces - bowed out - by the moon.