I was 12 when I wrote this, and was really pleased to win 'Best nature poem', Betjeman Poetry Prize 2019.
The path runs with a river
of cow parsley and campion.
White and pink,
Air heavy, honeysuckle sweet
draped over hogweed heads which push up
and up in fat green knuckles
to grasp at hawthorn
her clustered blossoms like
fragile snowflakes, slowly melting.
Blackbird sits amongst the buds.
Black against white.
Dappling the path
with his evensong
which unfurls in spirals and swirls
like the tendrils of vetch,
moving to the pulse of insect hearts
softened by dusty moth wings.
He sings for me and I listen
until the trees disappear into dusk.
Grey upon grey.
Until his song slips into silence
and we flow
safe in our secret
towards a new day.
Me reading Evensong in St Pancras station