o n c e

 

It was only a bluebell wood,

we lay bound as weeds,

a chimaera rising
between the trees,

as if scent could be made to stay

like a glade of blue,
or midnight,
midnight never came as hard

as it did in those days;

so who are we to call it blue,

all of us, now,

as if the woodland knew
or even cared

that we were once beneath the leaves

and alive above the roots