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Margaret Griffith
I work for Newham Libraries' Housebound Service. I joined the Workshop in 1990, and have since written short stories and a few poems.
The Bluebell Wood
A May-day holiday,
Midsummer hot and bright.
My mother wants to see the bluebell wood
And so do I.
Her heart condition gains on her.
I don't know whether she can make the hill:
She says: "I want, I can, I will."
I pull up at the gate
Where you're not supposed to park.
She glows with eagerness
For loveliness to come.
It takes time and help to climb the hill:
Slowly, with stops and rests,
Her body does her will.
The sun shines blazing gold.
A full-stop in the sky
Cascades bejewelled song.
And there they are:
A lake of soft, translucent glowing blue.
A sweet scent, late spring incarnate,
Fills the wood for us to wallow in.
"Are you all right?"
"Of course. Let's climb that brow."
And there's a bigger, bluer lake:
The scent intensifies.
The full-stop goes on spilling diamonds:
A lark's song over Duncliffe Wood.
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