Dare I sit here grieving in a dream-world of my own,
thinking back across the years of happiness once known,
when outside the window on this bright and lovely day,
miracles are happening, the miracles of May;
the hawthorn in the hedges and the bluebells in the wood?
Can I now dely that life is sweet and God is good?
I don't think there is a much prettier sight in May than a bluebell wood. The music of nesting birdsong tickles your ears as dappled sunlight flickers across your face whilst a million tiny tinkling bells rustle beneath your feet . . . . what a brilliant spectacle of the delights of spring!
We have bluebells in the garden, but I know not how they got there. They just appeared one year . . . some along the base of the hedge and others in the strawberries. Each year we are treated to more and more as they seem to spread . . . . it is said that fields of bluebells are dangerously enchanted by fairies and that humans which enter a bluebell wood become so enchanted that they are quite unable to leave . . .
We walked within an ancient wood
Beside the Heart-of-England way
Where oak and beech and hazel stood,
Their leaves the pale shades of May.
By bole and bough, still black with rain,
The sunlight filtered where it would
Across a glowing, radiant stain—
We stood within a bluebell wood!
And stood and stood, both lost for words,
As all around the woodland rang
And echoed with the cries of birds
Who sang and sang and sang and sang…
My mind has marked that afternoon
To hoard against life’s stone and sling;
Should I go late, or I go soon,
The bluebells glow— the birds still sing.
Spring, spring, spring . . . it begins with the peek of snowdrops, followed by the crocus and hyacinth, which give way to golden primrose and daffodil . . . then brilliant tulips, who grace us but for a short time, but the most beautiful of all is the dainty bluebell. Can you believe that I had never seen one before I moved over here? I know! I must have been living beneath a rock.
Todd asked to me last night, why do I always respond with the same answer when I am asked which part of Canada do I come from with the reply, "The Best Part?" I said, "Because its true." And yet so many people miss this little gem, instead choosing to travel to the West, believing that Canada starts in Toronto and moves West to the Rockies and Vancouver. It is true that the West Coast holds a certain allure, but the Maritimes hold my heart, especially Nova Scotia with its Celtic roots. No matter how far away from home I travelled in my youth, as soon as I returned to Nova Scotia and had crossed the Isthmus of Chignecto, I was home, and my heart swelled with a feeling which defies description. In the warmer months the feeling was accompanied by the sounds of the bagpipes as a Piper played you into the province at the border. I wonder will I ever see it again.
I sure hope so. No matter how far
I stray from my Nova Scotia home,
it beckons me back.
The beauty, the people . . . the Valley. They lay deeply entwined in the roots of my soul. Funny how that goes . . . I used to have an accent, but I think I have lost it now. I just sound North American.
A thought to carry with you through today . . .
•。★★ 。* 。
° 。 ° ˛˚˛ * _Π_____*。*˚
˚ ˛ •˛•˚ */______/~＼。˚ ˚ ˛
˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門 ★
*.˛.° ˛°. .
˛°Kindness is in our power,
even when fondness is not.
~Mark Twain .° * 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ •
Baking in The English Kitchen today . . . Lemon & Cheese Puff. Delish!
Have a beautiful Sunday. We won't be going far as my knee is still giving me gyp. Don't forget along the way of your today . . .
═══════════ ღೋƸ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒღೋ ═══════════ ⊰✿░G░O░D⊰✿⊰L░O░V░E░S⊰✿⊰░Y░O░U░⊰✿
═══════════ ღೋƸ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒღೋ ═══════════
And I do too!