A potent perfume nuzzles at the fringes of my focus,
Tugging my gaze toward the trees; distracted,
I disentangle from fluttering green and amber luminescence to jar against the harsh screen glare.
A tender scented tendril curls over my mouth, caught open in a sigh,

And tilts my face to follow the path that saunters past the hedge and up and on, and deep into the wood.
I squeeze my shoulders back, snapping down the silver lid,
Then feel them fall in full seduced surrender to the bluebells peel and faerie ring.

Out the door and up the hill,
Drunk on fragrance, beckoned still
To wander under arching branches
Lost in pleasure, take my chances.
Though many come this way, they say,
And don’t return but choose to stay
Where endless Spring and Summer bless
And keep them in life’s sweet caress.
Where loss and grief can never mar
Perfection of each joyful hour,
But dwell in bliss and sated splendour
Without incentive to remember
Whatever came before.

I reach to cup a drooping bell
And recoil fast!
Feeling for delicate blue frill I find instead
The needle-stab sting of neighbouring nettle.
The pricking pain crashes my awareness,
A sonorous stroke as vital, rich, and hot
As any earlier enchantment.
I press the wealing finger to my mouth, and think of home.