memories Spring pours sunshine through the woods to dapple on my polished shoes. I hear birdsong echo children’s laughter; green is a scent, a taste fresh on my tongue. (The opening lines of an old poem.) Share this:Click to email a link to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)MoreClick to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Reddit (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to share on Tumblr (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pocket (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading... Related Author: don't confuse the narrator Exploring the boundary between writer and narrator through first person poetry, prose and opinion View all posts by don't confuse the narrator
Adore those ‘proper delicate bluebells – I’m afraid the chunky ‘Spanish’ variety in my garden will have to go! LikeLike Reply
It’s only a couple of weeks since I learned there were two types. They seem to have interbred in many places, so I was delighted to see the ones on the common are *proper* ones! LikeLike Reply
don't confuse the narrator 
Adore those ‘proper delicate bluebells – I’m afraid the chunky ‘Spanish’ variety in my garden will have to go!
LikeLike
It’s only a couple of weeks since I learned there were two types. They seem to have interbred in many places, so I was delighted to see the ones on the common are *proper* ones!
LikeLike