Whilst at school we studied the poems of Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy. It wasn’t a something I particularly enjoyed, this is how I spent that lesson; My teacher was not that impressed! …
My Version Of Daffodils.
Once, whilst walking up a hill,
I found a clump of daffodils,
It made me sad, it must be said,
As those daffodils were dead.
It brought no joy or happiness,
As Wordsworth claimed to have possessed,
That gentle breeze that made them dance,
Did not need a second glance.
I continued on my way,
Pondering what Wordsworth had to say,
And I think his sister Dorothy,
Had a better eye with which to see,
That these old daffodils,
Were not worthy of great thrills.
Suddenly what I least expect,
This patch of flowers to be wrecked,
In on his mower the old man rode,
Each daffodil was savagely mowed,
Bits of stalk and petal did fly,
As they were launched into the sky,
The mower’s motor roared and spat,
And left that daffodil patch quite flat,
The old man gone and all was quiet,
The silence marks the end of the riot,
Looking now I see little truth,
In Wordsworth’s poems, Daffodils or Ruth,
Nature is a funny thing,
It is a never ending ring,
Once dead we are recycled …
An old woman just bicycled,
past the spot by the filthy stream,
This wakes me from my strange dream,
As I continue on my walk,
I’m suddenly unable to talk,
Gripped by an urge to laugh out loud,
The old man should be proud,
He made me laugh it must be said,
As those daffodils were definitely DEAD!