Sunday, 03 April 2022
A poem for the 26th annual American National Poetry Month
Daffodils in April
They stand proud like sentinels
alongside the garden path
those yellow daffodils flecked
with specks of icy lambing snow
brave heroes of the unseasonal
weather; bruised, a little beaten
but not broken — not quite —
their hue uncannily bright against
the leaden sky and dull brown
slates of the path; frosted with
early morning dew as though
sprinkled with heavenly icing
sugar during the night — the work,
perhaps, of fairies unable to sleep
A famous poet once wrote April is
the cruellest month of year
those battered daffodils, new-born
lambs and their mums would
surely agree if they had the gift
of human speech — those flowers
and cotton-wool lambs are far braver
in the cold, wind, rain and snow
than us folk who shiver and shake our
heads in displeasure, wrapping coats
closer or staying indoors until the sun
kisses the earth and the day warms
© Carola Huttmann, 03 April 2022
