I had written twenty flower poems before this one. "No-one can compete with Wordsworth's Daffodils," I thought, as each new flower came to mind. Finally I looked round my garden in August, and thought: "There's nothing more irrelevant than a daffodil in August." Hence this poem:

DAFFODILS – PATIENCE

By July, the beds are empty;
The tattered leaves have gone;
The gold: a forgotten memory,
That danced in the early sun.

Spring’s green growth has been processed.
The bulbs are full and round;
Now: half a year of silence,
Waiting, under the ground.

Eight months of nothing, in darkness;
Suspended animation!
Inert, unnoticed, meaningless,
Entombed for summer’s duration.

Pansies, delphiniums, roses,
Fill the hot days with colour;
Dahlias, as the year closes,
Lengthen the reign of summer.

Nothing stirs for the daffodil,
True to its trust, in the dark;
Gardens are swept by winter chill;
In the black soil, not a mark!

But tiny leaves stand ready,
Formed in the bulb’s faithful heart.
As new spring totters, unsteady,
The rising spears make a start.

While spring still throws us a mixture
Of sleet and breeze and sun,
The daffodils dance us a picture:
Golden life, risen again!