Bluebells

The bluebells are luminous in the silence.
The wood is breathless, a tree shimmers.
A bee crashes into a lake of indigo.
There is an eruption from the centre of the stillness.
Leaves quicken as if in answer.

The light is fractured by branches, high above the head
Of a running child, mind filled with spinning worlds,
Conscious only of silence and a dream-spirit.

She cannot see me, as I cannot see the woman who stands behind me.
In the mist of bluebells, she knows eyes and ears.
A presence sweeps her arm, she shivers.
Leaves dance.
She knows no fear.
She forms words that I will speak,
Begins thoughts that will rise whole from my mind.
Forgetting me, she follows the bee into the bluebells.

I leave, the wood breathes free again,
Eased of paradoxes, of a spirit in a closed space,
Of the oppressive pretence of Mystery.

Turning back, I see her shadow, we touch hands in the silence.
In suspense, I wait for her to smile,
To turn and say she knows me and approves.

In and out the dusty bluebells,
In and out the dusty bluebells,
In and out the dusty bluebells,
Who shall be my partner?