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,
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.