Bluebells

from Caroline Watson Sparrow

Bluebells lean where old stones sleep,
Soft as prayer the morning keeps;
Through lichen names and weathered years,
They ring no sound, yet bless the ears.
Beneath the yew’s eternal shade,
A violet tide through grass is laid,
Where robins stitch the warming air
And sunlight threads through roots and prayer.
The churchyard wakes from winter’s seam,
In petaled hush and greening dream;
Each bell a note of tender blue,
For those once lost, and life made new.
The mossy paths, the leaning gate,
Hold springtime gently, stilling fate;
And every bloom among the graves
Speaks not of death, but love that stays.
So April kneels on sacred ground,
With fragrant color, sight, and sound;
And bluebells bow in bright refrain
Until the swallows come again.