Our Summer Place

There was a pretty bluebell wood, that i remember well. As children we would spend each hour, Such stories we would tell. We'd walk amongst the flowers, enchanted by the scene. Playing games of make believe, no place has ever been. As pretty as that bluebell wood, each flower picked with love, Beneath the bright blue summer sky, right there so far above. I loved that pretty bluebell wood, With memories so fine, Behind the old welsh terraced homes, Right here in this valley of mine. Jayne Louise Davies