Yellow Flowers

No, it was not the Lake District,
and God knows, I’m no Wordsworth
But there they were
on the fringes
of a manicured lawn
waving their gaudy heads.

Yellow flowers, I called them,
Until Christa told me they’re daffodils
her favourite flower and she
leaned down to smell one.

Daffodils? They curl their scented lips,
Daffodils? They sing like mynahs.

truly love it was the nightingale and not the lark!

I huddled on a bench
under a sky of blue concentrate
and the wispy heat of an
almost summer day
and smelled my memories.

And thought
why be sad?
There is hope yet,
There are yellow flowers,
There are daffodils.