Afternoon April 1 2014

Bird song above the traffic's roar

And the wind turbines' jet-plane -passing-whirr,

And the heat of the sun on this blank white page

And the yellowness of the shrubs once more,

And the daffodils which are hardly astir

In the breeze though it seems to rage

Where it pushes and catches the PVC blades

In its sudden blasts and mad tirades.

A vulgarity of hyacinths, their gaudy shades

Of such peach and pink,

And a purring orange-brown blur

Of butterflies coming to drink,

On their sweetness which one is inclined to think

Must be saccharine.

And the air is thin

And pale blue, but lacking in monotony

As it peters out to a violet hue,

A remembrance of absent flowers,

Primula Denticulata,

Twinned in the Flemish school of my mind

With the bellflower, 'Glomerata'

For purpleness and rhyme

And ball like heads, which I find,

Though they never actually meet in time,

Is a pleasing mental association,

A poetic and colourful classification,

Superior to botany.