picking bluebells with little scarlett

we grasp

the stalks low down;

feel the click of the root

detaching

from the woodland soil.

she lifts

a blue cloche

to her ear;

wonders why it does not ring.

I try explaining

but already she’s moved on

to the daisies,

each yellow disc plucked naked;

their petals

raining to the ground 

like miniature white spears.

"Arthur Loves Me,

He Loves Me Not..."

but it’s the bluebells

she brings home and draws,

and presses between

linen-white pages,

and pins on the kitchen cork board.

why, I’ll never know.