Imagine the sound of a bluebell wood.

If the bluebells were bells.

I’m picturing hearing a clarion chorus of Morris dancer footsteps, rather than a church bell tome that chimes.

Hatchlands Park in East Clandon near Guildford has one of the most succulent bluebell woods in Surrey.

The ground is abuzz with florescent blues.

The only way of knowing the trees is by their shadows that traipse across the land.

Branches creak and bend in gymnastic directions, like in an André Derain painting.

With the colour kept exclusively for the ground.

Such beautiful moments of blue.

Dream in bluebell silhouettes.

And hurry to see them while they’re fresh!

Go armed with wellies as entrance and exit is via this field:

For more information visit the National Trust website.

 

When I hear the word ‘bluebells’
I always think of a cloche,
cliché, clique.
The snap of your fingers sound nothing
like the ring of a bell.

A bluebell. A bell.
A dome with a dangly bit
like at the back of your throat
that releases rhythm and blues like confetti.
Jazz: syncopated, syncopé,
now blues wear a blasé blouse.
Bluebell plays its buds as a chime tree –
(you don’t know what that is?
it’s an instrument, percussive,
a tree with metal
bars suspended horizontal that hang vertical
and wait for someone to run along it
g l i s s a n d o)
sometimes heaves
with the violet weight of wisteria
and the juice of a grapevine.