The Bluebells

Ray Bub

The bluebells are out in southeast Kent,
Though not to be found ‘round the cottage doors.
This wild weed of fresh-bloom bathroom scent
Spreads untended on the scrub forest floor.

One fresh-cleared field the Maidstone bus passed
Left with brush rough-piled cut stumps all about
Seemed aglow with fire-blue hell-haze gas
I heard someone say, “The bluebells are out”

Before the sharp blue spell was broken
The coach had gone out of sight of the field
If not for those words I heard spoken
I could not swear now what I’d seen was real.