It was Spring,
the time of hopes fulfilled
and songbirds filled
with happy, joyful melody.
I walked through the garden of my dreams
down pathways full of future schemes
through light-wooded sharp-edged greens
that were the boundaries of my imaginings.
And there, like yesteryear, my eyes were filled
with the poet's imagery, a thousand daffodils
beckoned and waved from yonder hill
and my heart lept within, was thrilled.
Yet, as I neared, the shapes were strange
and what I hoped was golden, was deranged
a differing form now clothed the brow
as I hurried forward to behold it now.
Ah, Yes. These are not daffodils I see
yet so alike that they fooled me
and even as I watched, drew near,
my heart was strangely filled with fear.
I see their form has no golden hue,
a misted red hints at their edge.
It had not rained, nor was there dew
so why the drops, is there a clue?
With forms like five-clustered doves they bloomed
and after flowers behind them trailed.
On each dove's form there hung a tear
clearly seen as I stood here.
Quite gently came the breeze
so that they moved with blissful ease
like angels floating midst the trees
as deepening red their form congealed.
Upon the gently whispering wind
came harsher voices, so unkind,
followed by the weirdest call
that went right through my soul, my all.
Whilst listening to the list of names
the doves all lost their wings in shame
red-tinted blossoms now became
deep painted posies at a requiem.
I'll hear that whisper all my life
the gathering storm, so filled with strife
and one by one the names came clear
...oh, how I wish I could not hear
The storm had not yet shown
it's fury, no strong wind had blown
Yet, all those once-thought daffodils
had bent in half upon that hill
In deepest reverence they all bowed
And all those little drops they held
became a cascading flood of tears
and I was touched by them... and fear.
Across the hillside came the thundered rage
and no appeasing voice could it assuage
the all-consuming sound that made me sick
bore the names of Dylan and of Eric.
I longed for the silence of my dream
for the childhood innocence of my scheme.
For the games, and the growing,
and the simple 'not-knowing'
that was the honesty of my learning.
Ah, my dear long-learnt poet, what a thrill
was surely yours that is not mine:
for what you saw were daffodils
and what I painfully behold, is Columbine.
© Copyright 2016 Geoff Groom. All rights reserved.