Wild Bluebells


I stared at the photo,

my half reflection

smeared in the dust.


She was standing there, still

turned and distant,

the scent of wild bluebells

a punishment in the air.


Closing my eyes

I floated through a dappled copse,

and in a sea of purple


we kissed. And cried. And laughed.

But when I looked again,

she had gone.  


Jeremy Barron