I was in a pub in Chiddingly recently where they were selling a poetry collection at the bar to raise funds for the local church. Didn't sound promising, but we had a look and liked it. The poet is called Michael Bridger and his collection "Wardo Mescro". Here's a poem of his about bluebells:
Hard blue bells whipping my legs
But I ran
Through a lake of azure flatness
Concealing rotten stumps shaded by mighty Beech.
This wood, unspoilt at that time, I truly loved.
I was sure its existence was known
Only to my family.
When hampers were packed on blistering Saturdays
Excitement would course through my veins
Spreading to my brothers like a welcomed virus.
The short car journey always lasted forever.
Released from that wheeled oven
We'd break out the arsenal of plastic guns
And chase the dog in pursuit of butterflies.
My eldest brother was the Captain;
His order of the day always clear and the same;
Build a log bridge across the stream
And not forgetting of course to fall in that stream
Along with the dog, spraying black mud.
One day we stopped going.
When my Father stopped loving my trusting Mother.
I returned here myself years later
Only to have my dreams smashed
And my heart broken.
The wood. Our wood, had been destroyed.
The great storm had spared nothing
And I knew in that instant that like the wood
My childhood had finished.
The first of many dreams to be killed
While my back was turned.