WHEN THE WIND MOVED GENTLY THE LEAVES 
                       (BLUEBELLS)


Each April turning Maytide
over thirty years, each Spring,
we walked our fav’rite pathways
in the mists of first morning.

That time of year held special thrills
with nature rife once more,
new shoots from seeds, bright green in birth
lit up dull woodland floor.

And if those small flowers had possessed a sound 
so when wind moved gently the leaves,
ten thousand sweet bells 
would have played us a tune
along with the sighs of the trees.

Bush hazel and tall beech trees
with young leaves emerald shone,
collecting the warming sunrays
with the wintry days far gone:
and in a secret dell whose timeless lore
lay hidden by forest’s growth,
there you and I, with hearts on fire
pledged love in breathless oaths.

And if those small flowers had possessed a sound 
so when the wind moved gently the leaves,
ten thousand sweet bells 
would have played us a tune
along with the sighs of the trees.

Each year we marvelled as the Spring
painted colour on earth’s dark hues,
but the gifts of life we loved the most
were the bluebells’ misted blues.

 And if those small flowers had possessed a sound 
so when wind moved gently the leaves,
ten thousand sweet bells would have played us 
a tune along with the sighs of the trees.

But nature’s perverse and strange in her ways,
both equally cruel and then kind,
so knowing my love for the beauties she brings,
then why has she left me blind?
And despite fond walks through 
woodlands we know
with my hand led gently by you,
it’s painful to me that I’ll never again -
see the bluebells a’sparkle with dew:
see the bluebells sparkle with dew:
see the bluebells sparkle with dew.


Simon Leak  Copyright