© roy ballard 2012


Do I remember the bluebells…

Yes, I remember bluebells. In the month of May;
leaves overhead, unbudding, were still thin.
The lane was mired in puddles on soft clay
reflecting sky and swallows, cumulous,
clouds white as choir boys and us.
A timid sun lit up the haze of blue
beneath the sycamores. A covert wood,
hemmed in by ditches long, so long, ago
was all the cover we were bedded in.
It was the season that brooks no delay:
when every flower is pressing into bud
and life is urgent to mix blood with blood.
So like a doting dog came love, full tilt,
and sent us sprawling on this bluebell quilt.

Grid ref 212023 Landranger Sheet 134


SS Obersturmführer Schmidt raised his pistol,
noticed the child’s hands,
little fingers, knitted sleeves
then discovered he could not fire.
Where do you wander now OS Schmidt,
blessed with the pang of pity
that once made you a man?


Heydon Church, Norfolk

The Bats that soil this church
are cherished more than it is
for the old religion
has no value nor power.

Eternal, empty wastes
of deserts bury cities;
the emptiness of space
has wasted faith away.

Archbishops should resign,
the Pope and all his pretties;
their God already has
and Olympus has been vacant for ages.