A Poem for Spring


I wrote this poem in America for a different breed of yellow flower. But seeing the daffodils erupt in London has brought a new shade of meaning to my experience. Here it is for your enjoyment.

The weed has no mind,
except what I lend it, there
between two concrete slabs,
growing flowers so yellow
they burn in my sight, remain
long after I close my eyes,
as if I might see them in death, Continue reading…