Spring Morning

Joke Frima

Spring Morning


Where am I going? I don't quite know.
Down to the stream where the king-cups grow-
Up on the hill where the pine-trees blow-
Anywhere, anywhere. I don't know.

Where am I going? The clouds sail by,
Little ones, baby ones, over the sky.
Where am I going? The shadows pass,
Little ones, baby ones, over the grass.

If you were a cloud, and sailed up there,
You'd sail on water as blue as air,
And you'd see me here in the fields and say:
"Doesn't the sky look green today?"

Where am I going? The high rooks call:
"It's awful fun to be born at all."
Where am I going? The ring-doves coo:
"We do have beautiful things to do."

If you were a bird, and lived on high,
You'd lean on the wind when the wind came by,
You'd say to the wind when it took you away:
"That's where I wanted to go today!"

Where am I going? I don't quite know.
What does it matter where people go?
Down to the wood where the blue-bells grow-
Anywhere, anywhere. I don't know.

A. A. Milne

There's a bluebell wood not far from here, just like the ones in England. I've never seen one with my own eyes before, and what a treat for the senses. It made me wonder if there were any poems about bluebells. Not many, but of them I like this one for it's quality of childlike aimlessness and observation of the natural world. Reading as an adult, though, and one with worries and stress, it appeals to my sense of wanting to go somewhere, anywhere, to find a moment of peace and beauty. A bluebell wood would do quite well.