To your surprise, perhaps, we’re still around

To see the dandelions make a better

Fist of yellow than the daffodils.

I should explain: I don’t share Wordsworth’s taste

For lakeside strolls, and the dandelion is bolder,

With an admirable disregard

For shade and shelter. Yes, they’re soon to silver

And disperse, but seeding out, we’re told,

Is natural; and think what good a bunch

Of airheads scattered by the wind might bring

To anywhere (please, anywhere) but here.

Maybe. But count on it: next year these fields

Will be emblazoned with the heraldry

They wear today, the lion’s ruff will roar

Up through the concrete, and the cracks between

The paving stones will be buttoned up with gold.


Jonathan Reid

April 2015, Botton Village

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