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        BLUEBELL WOOD
Before they built the houses on Bluebell Wood,
In spring it was fragrant with all the flowers there,
Bluebells, lady smocks and heather and we could
Gather them and take them home with loving care.

We never picked too many so they’d grow again,
Summer brought the smell of the long sweet grass,
To roll all the way down to the bottom was our aim,
Landing by the stream then quietly watch the fish pass,

In fall, hazelnuts, conkers and acorns fell from the trees,
The different coloured leaves making a carpet of beauty,
The smell of the harvest crops blowing on the soft breeze
Across the meadow below, a place to sit, everything to see.

In winter months if we had a good fall of nice soft snow,
Which was not often enough for us children you see,
With a tray to the top of Bluebell wood we’d all go,
Then race down at speed hoping we’d be as safe as could be.

All the family joined in the fun, maybe sharing the old tray,
Taking it in turns to see who’d go the farthest on each run,
Young and old, those in between spent a good part of Saturday
Playing in the snow on the slope, having loads of simple fun.

Houses were built, beauty, fragrance and fun all gone,
A great big part of my life was spoilt, taken right away,
But just one little battle I had quite secretly had won.
I had dug up a root of bluebells that still flowers today.

(Millicent) Ann Margetson January 12, 2004