Bluebell Tribute
Only a child can be crushed
By the snapping of a spring bluebell
Dragged from its snug leaf-mould bed
Borne triumphantly home to
Mother in abundant armfuls,
Simple tribute presented in buckets of blue,
One in a thousand injured
By a jealous sister or brother,
An incautious best friend,
Too eager to welcome the reaper.
The homeward journey stem-plotted
Unconsciously dropped in haste
Each one a measure less of love
The path is not too long, luckily
A sufficiency still remain outside
The kitchen door where all are placed
For praise and warm congratulation
Present perfection, as perfect as can be
Imagined since first torn from musty soil
An ornate gift, with lingering smell of decay
No tears fall for those that are as dead
Yet have the look of life, vigorous, unwilting
This one, with broken stem and crippled bell
Blemished, noticeable among even this host
Is plucked out, discarded, deliberately cast aside
Callously abandoned to its fate, unmourned.
It would have been kinder, gentler, to let it grow
In peace under translucent green beech leaves
In the damp, silent, tranquillity of the wood.
How do we tell this to a child?