The Bluebells.

Late April, Puddle Cottage, Cornwall.

I've waited many months for this moment. Does it symbolise something very significant? The blue-ing of the bells. Everyone has mentioned it, the woods opposite our cottage; “amazing with the bells!” I noted the first shoots way back, imagined the change. All through the new year watching their progress. Leggy leaves began to carpet the floor, springing up on the path too, trampled and flattened. Tell tale tracks of fox and badger make their own paths, these just a notion in the green. Buds form, the curious observer can find them tightly packed and tucked deep in the crown of leaves. They sit hidden for weeks. Then seemingly overnight, are shooting up, reaching high for sunlight on impossibly delicate stems. A hint of blue now as first flowers make their shy introductions. Then 2, 3, 4, more bell like now reaching and craning and suddenly they are falling over themselves heavy with their own blooms and hanging so that bells can be bells. Frilly tipped, tiny hats painted striped with palest purple. The sweet smell of Spring. They're not quite at their bluest and I'm glad. Because what happens then? When the magical Bluebells have gone over, what happens then?