Friday, 27 May 2011
Blue, With Bells On
Every May, when I know that the bluebells are in bloom, I yearn to be back in this meadow.
I long to turn the corner at the bottom of the steep, wooded path and see the grassy field open up before me like a secret and hear the rush of the river intensify the silence.
I long to smell the sweet scent of the blossom that bursts into flower just as the bluebells come into bloom and gaze down the grassy expanse of a meadow that's green as Spring itself.
And so, when I returned home last week, and the sun burst briefly through the cloud, it was with a happy heart that I carried my boy down the path towards the river, and saw the meadow stretch out before me, frilled at the edges with blue.
I sat in the freshly cut grass with my Dad, my brother and my boy whilst bright sunshine made us lift our cheeks towards the light, rest our eyes and smile.
And for a moment, everything was perfect. The colours were brighter, the air was quieter and the sun was warmer than I would have believed possible and cabbage white butterflies were dancing in the grass. Bluebells were nodding their heads gently in the breeze and behind them, rhododendron flowers studded the riverbank like jewels.
Moments of pure rapture are rare and need to be savoured and celebrated, and as I watched John rollick and roll in the grass, his giggles rippling over the glade, I realised that that's exactly what he was doing, and that he was capable of expressing the joy of the moment with an eloquence that I could only dream of.