The floor of the wood is flooded with bluebells;
perhaps I should choose to pick those?
They roll like the seas in breeze of the evening
and wash through the banks where they grow.

Now round the next bend, the path to the cottage -
its occupant sits at the door.
The nearest, again, I’ve reached through the woodland….
it’s here I turned back once before.

A canopy cools in dappling late sunlight
I wring out my hands in the glade.
The hedgerows have streams of dog rose and foxglove
but tides of the bluebells cascade.

I’ll take a bouquet, spend only a minute.
Sweet scents on the wind as it blows
between the green boughs the wood has within it.
I step. I shall pick as I go.
For that is the least that I owe.