A slight blueness gathers on the hillside,
not yet a proclamation,
more a rumour of colour
passing quietly from root to air.
Bluebells thinking about becoming blue,
each bud a held breath,
a soft closed fist
loosening by degrees.
The trees stand patient above it all,
their trunks like tuning forks
catching the hush of early spring,
that moment before the choir begins.
And I sit inside it,
in the almost blue,
in the just about to be,
feeling the woodland lean toward revelation.
Nothing here hurries.
The hillside exhales its faint tint,
a promise smudged across the earth,
and I am allowed to wait with it,
quiet witness
to the first small opening
of the season’s hand.
Meanwhile, down by the sunlit paths,
warmth gathers like a second chorus:
dogs running bright arcs of joy,
children scattering laughter through the trees,
mums and dads lifting faces to the light,
coffee warming their hands
as sunglasses catch the glint of afternoon.
Spring unfolds in layers,
the slow blue rising from the ground,
the quick gold dancing in the air,
and I sit at the meeting point,
held gently
between what is waking
and what is already alive.
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 10:20 AM UTC
A slight blueness gathers on the hillside,
not yet a proclamation,
more a rumour of colour
passing quietly from root to air.
Bluebells thinking about becoming blue,
each bud a held breath,
a soft closed fist
loosening by degrees.
The trees stand patient above it all,
their trunks like tuning forks
catching the hush of early spring,
that moment before the choir begins.
And I sit inside it,
in the almost blue,
in the just about to be,
feeling the woodland lean toward revelation.
Nothing here hurries.
The hillside exhales its faint tint,
a promise smudged across the earth,
and I am allowed to wait with it,
quiet witness
to the first small opening
of the season’s hand.
Meanwhile, down by the sunlit paths,
warmth gathers like a second chorus:
dogs running bright arcs of joy,
children scattering laughter through the trees,
mums and dads lifting faces to the light,
coffee warming their hands
as sunglasses catch the glint of afternoon.
Spring unfolds in layers,
the slow blue rising from the ground,
the quick gold dancing in the air,
and I sit at the meeting point,
held gently
between what is waking
and what is already alive.
Each spring, when the light stretches and the earth begins its slow blue breathing, I come back to this woodland with a warm cup in my hands. Joy adored this unfolding, the almost‑blue, the just‑about‑to‑be. As I sit here, letting the season open around me, tears rise gently in my eyes, stirred by the fondness of remembering her in this place where colour first learns to speak.
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