I ambled idly on the mound

That hosted snowflakes, drops and squills,

Enticing Springtime all around,

A flush, of first-year daffodils;

Beside the wood, beneath the leaves,

A bursting choir of golden sheaves…

In Wordsworth’s song, and camera’s eye,

These arms outstretched with spathe and bud,

All raising cups towards the sky,

In sanguine cheer from where I stood;

And from the kitchen window cills

I picture next year’s daffodils…