Wildflowers

At year's start

the green shoots

of snow drops would

emerge amidst the

detritus of the dead time,

their cups swaying in

the winter winds

like tiny bells ringing in the new.

They would be joined 

by aconites – bright yellow patches,

and then primroses,

their pale lemon flowers

reflecting the thin warmth

of the early sun.

In spring the bluebells

would carpet the woods,

bringing the promise of groggy bees

and the pungent aroma

of wild garlic,

white and tall,

nodding its greeting

as you brushed past, 

while summer heralded

the sweet spice of lilies,

dewy pearls beneath the trees,

and bright buttercups

where the sunlight

filtered through.

All year long the forest

gleamed with colour,

in sun and shade -

a place of magic

and the deafening quiet of the wild.

But the woods are smaller now.

Houses bloom where

adders once basked

in sunlit glades

and the pink of Herb Robert

scrambled through the grass.

There is no room

for the heady scent

and brightness of the past.

Trees are felled

with no regret

for no one sees what

they have lost

or cares that

there are too many of us

and not enough

wildflowers.