Childhood Memories Of Plants Poem by Mary Champion

Real memories from a 1950's childhood in North Devon.


Catkin tails and pussy willow-
winter's fading - spring will follow.
Pale primroses dot the dell -
delight us with their soft, sweet smell.
Then in woodland, by the rill,
a golden veil of daffodils.
Pick a bunch to give to Mum,
a jam-jar full of warm spring sun.
And, as they fade, the bluebells rise;
an azure haze enchants our eyes.

As the warming Sun expands,
a flowered carpet cloaks the land.
A mass of dandelions spread -
'Don't pick them, though - you'll wet the bed! '
When they seed, let's blow to see
if his love is true to me.

Dainty daisies linked in chains,
ragged robins down the lanes.
Hold buttercups beneath our chin,
see gold reflected on our skin.
No doubt about it, so it's said,
we all like butter on our bread.
The cowslips over in the lea,
milkmaids blooming daintily.

Running through long meadow grass;
tickled bare legs as we pass.
Moving through moon-daisies, clover -
diving down and rolling over.
All our senses charged with summer,
everything alive with colour.

A blade of grass between our thumbs -
blow hard until the whistle comes.
Although that harsh and raucous shriek-
is not the sweet note that we seek.

Mind the nettles by the hedges;
a dock leaf soothes the angry rashes.
Snapdragons and celandine;
speedwell blue as sapphire's shine.
The scent of wild rose, faintly lingers:
fox-glove flowers on our fingers.

Loved those stitchworts -we called jacks -
squeeze the seed pods - hear the cracks.
With such a satisfying snap -
we had no need for bubble-wrap.
Wild strawberries -are sweet and juicy
highlight of our summer booty.

Autumn too holds hordes of treasure-
exciting finds for childish pleasure.
Ash keys, hang in lavish bunches,
we pluck them from the lower branches.

Hazel trees with nuts bedecked;
acorns; conkers to collect.
Drill a hole and thread a string -
then battle to see who is king.

In the early dew-damp morning,
delicious mushrooms ripe for picking.
Old man's beard and cuckoo pint -
that poison plant - a deadly find.
The stiff, dark stamens catch our eye.
'But do not touch or you will die! '
In the woods, I thrill to see
a single, splendid, spindle tree.

Dying leaves turn brown and fall.
On frosty days, en-route to school,
there never was a sound so good
as that crisp, crunching underfoot.
 
When winter comes, the plants will render
pleasures I can still remember.
Scarlet berries, glossy leaves
dress the Christmas holly trees.
Wreaths of ivy round the door;
tree-trunks glint with crystal hoar.

The logs we gleaned, on woodland raids,
will warm us through the chilly days.
And cheering us through storm and rain
the knowledge; Spring will come again.