The bluebell

A fine and subtle spirit dwells
In every little flower,
Each one its own sweet feeling breathes
With more or less of power.
There is a silent eloquence
In every wild bluebell
That fills my softened heart with bliss
That words could never tell.
Anne Bronte (part of the poem before it gets dark)


My little bluebell grove is bursting forth and I love to see them, Hopefully the native variety as opposed to the Spanish interlopers which grow upright rather than with this characteristic curve. Other names for them:  wild hyacinth, cuckoo’s boots, granfer griggles, witches’ thimbles, lady’s nightcap, fairy flower, cra’tae (crow’s toes). No idea what granfer griggles means! Fond memories of my childhood and massive bluebell woods, gathering armfuls. No I wouldn't do that now. It obviously makes me very nostalgic for here's my blip from almost exactly two years ago! 
In other news, I managed a bath last night - one leg hanging over the edge as you do! Simple pleasures. And happy Easter. I realised we've not had a proper quota of hot cross buns, must remedy that.