Bringing back Bluebells
Dressed in T-shirt and cut off jeans to welcome the good weather, I stride out, enjoying the tingling rays of sunshine that paint my face a cheerful pink; ignoring the dreary streets of the housing estate.
After only five minutes or so, I emerge out of the drab estate and into the countryside, ambling down what is affectionately known as ‘lovers’ lane’. Ploughed fields, on either side, are sown with their summer crops, behind hedgerows of luxurious, sweet-smelling hawthorn and early honeysuckle.
I climb the gate, trespassing into the farmer’s field (Well, what the Hell! Everybody does it!), trainers padding easily over soft earth and luscious meadow. I turn at a rustic bridge to walk alongside a babbling stream, a swing-gate straddled over it – so I straddle it …I’m so straddled I must look like Tom Hanks playing the floor piano in ‘Big’! …
…and there they are! Thousands, of bluebells – in all the blues you can imagine -just sitting there, waiting to be plucked.
And I pluck! – wading through seas of midnight-blue; lavender-blue; sky blue. The sun shifts down, down… “Better go home”, I think.
I hurry back through the farmer’s field, up the lane, through the estate – and I’m home in a jiffy.
Bursting through the door, I make a mad dash for my vase in tight-jawed single-mindedness. Demonstrating cool precision now, I arrange my beautiful bluebells in my beautiful, blue vase.
“There! All done” I exclaim.
I am content.
© Sheila Newton 2010