Monday, 5 May 2008

Bluebells and bank holidays

I've just had the loveliest of bank holidays -- doing nothing out of the ordinary, yet all of it felt like a gift, because of the sunshine (walking the dog in the woods, eating ice-cream, seeing my husband, who has been away for weeks...) Anyway, as I was walking home with the dog, I realised that bluebells had flowered on our road -- not just in some of my neighbours' front gardens (where they grow year after year), but for the first time in the small patches of grass around the plane trees that line the street. There is something so unexpected -- and cheering -- about seeing wild flowers in the city; especially when seedlings take root, as if by magic, in cracks along the pavements or the crevices in brick walls.

4 comments:

BrontëBlog Adm. said...

The Bluebell is the sweetest flower
That waves in summer air:
Its blossoms have the mightiest power
To soothe my spirit's care. . .


(Although it is said that the Brontës might have mistaken the harebells for bluebells).

Glad to hear you had a lovely day.

Justine Picardie said...

Cristina -- thank you! The perfect poem for a perfect day!

Table Talk said...

I've been burying my nose in a neighbours wallfowers while out on my walk today. If someone could bottle that scent i would make them a fortune!

Justine Picardie said...

I love the scent of wallflowers, too. I wonder why it's never used in perfumes? Is it because the name sounds too prosaic? Perhaps perfumers think we all want to be roses, rather than wallflowers...