I dream about being in a bluebell woodland,
Morning’s dampness on my hands.
I find a torn seam in elemental’s veil;
Ask to enter the precious trail.
Bare toes tickling on grassy moss,
Nose wrinkling as plumes of bluebells waft;
Lost in a deep purple blue lake,
Looking at the shapes the old oak makes,
Their wizened branches seeking light,
Orange tip butterflies flee with all their might!
Woodland’s serenade fades gently like a breeze;
I take a sip of Titania’s tea,
Finding myself mixing a pool of morning dew
With soothing dainty hues from the bluebell wood
on my watercolour palette ready for a new painting to emerge.
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