Upon hill, it stands majestic, looking down,
the only slice of peace amongst absurd,
if one were to listen, its secrets heard
amongst the rustle and breeze…

 

Bluebell Woods, that all seek, it speaks,
and warns of what it has seen, people and their ways,
through so many years, through so many days,
listen carefully, its contemporary historic tales.

 

Childhood clinches, secret smokers,
the truant, the poetically fluent,
in search of inspiration, this small cutting
amongst concrete, brick and daub.

​

Bluebell Woods, not of evil guise,
not blackened or cold, one of light,
retreat and harbouring, out of sight,
love and friends never seen again.

 

Upon hill, it stands majestic,
looking down upon this town,
the fading grace, that once was proud.

 

A dusty track where stile guards,
from Ipsley entrance, from vehicles pass,
through the brambles amongst the grass,
make for poignant head of leaves above.

 

“Bluebell Woods!” we cry in youthful merry,
where dens and fortress we can build,
shield from existence within boughs and field,
far from elders nagging.

 

Another incarnation of passed times,
another bookmark for reference tomorrow,
maybe again for me to borrow,
from this my library of retrospect.

 

Upon hill, it stands majestic,
frowning upon the chaos of homestead,
its peaceful aura stained by bloodshed,
from the unsighted future below.

 

2000