Your favourite are bluebells, the first
you call to mind when I say the word ‘wildflower’.
Not a carpet of blue because you’d not walk on them,
not a sea of blue glinting in the sun because
what would you swim in? But a wood of bluebells?
Yes.That’d be it.That’s right. A wood.
For me, it’s the hawthorn, blackthorn, snowdrop.
Whites different from the bones of the hedgehog
we buried in the garden or the downy scraps
of the robin brood lost to a cold snap.Whites
like snow really, or like frost on a Derbyshire field
with no farmer’s footprints, no tracks from cows.