It foams in creamy-white unfurlings,
cresting the bluebells’ receding wave;
turning woodland shade into
Dreamlike it rises, an airy froth
riding up the boles
of old oaks;
drawing the eye up their stately heights
to blue-pierced canopy above;
then down again on
rays of filtered light that play
upon the lacy veil earth wears
for its spring marriage
Cow parsley. A weed.
Queen Anne’s lace it’s other name.
A King’s wedding gift.
That’s really lovely, and I have printed it off to give to the man I am helping over his phobias by walking in the woods. We will be in church again this Sunday. Bryn Evans.