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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
I was born in a little place called Roby Mill which is situated in some of the most beautiful countryside of South West Lancashire in England's North West. It is surrounded by rolling fields and woodlands and is still, to this day, basically a farming community.
Growing up there, I always knew summer had arrived with the appearance of the bluebells that carpeted the fields and woods in a wonderfully soft shade of the most delicate blue. They remain my all time favourite flower.

Submitted: July 16, 2009

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Submitted: July 16, 2009




A whispered kiss from late Spring's breath, nature's scent upon the breeze,

That tugs at foliage, grass and plants, teasing them with ease,

And sunlight bright and warm and good, that through the leafy tree tops shine,

Spears of yellow gold do fall, bars of radiant light so fine,

And as the banks of soft, green moss, roll gently away,

This gentle place of beauty's peace, bids me here to stay,

My heart aches with wondrous joy, held spellbound in my breast,

And my eyes feast upon the sight, of the place I love to rest,

Amongst the earthy hues of green, that carpet forest floor.

A host of bluebells, small and prim, which heart could ask for more,

They cover nook and cranny too, their shading subtle blue,

Their perfect shaping and sweet scents, a delight thats all so true,

And if these gentle blooms could sing, if vent to voice they'd give,

The angels would declare their love and bid them forever live,

No rival to their music, would anywhere be found,

Neither in the air, nor in the sea, nor even on the ground,

The birds of field and forest too, would hang their heads in shame,

The chorus of the babbling brook, it would do the same,

For the beauty that the bluebell has, is quite beyond compare,

And music found in man or beast, could never be so rare.

And music made by man or beast, could never be so rare.

© Copyright 2017 Randall Stone. All rights reserved.

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