Along the bank of Terryland River
there is a path and a bench,
they exist because they submitted
to some kind of plan,
spring did not sprout these things
and they will probably survive the winter.
Today is neither cold nor warm,
it is fragile,
hushed,
a calm day that knows the ties
between sourness and desire
like the cold coffee in my hand
it lowers its eye
in the direction of hope
to earth
to dust and insects
and automation
and holds its sigh
and lasts that way.
Along the path,
beside dark, still river water,
and wan cereal brushes of reed,
are daffodils,
they bear up well under study
revealing nothing to prospect
of Wordsworth’s gold,
but lift their faces,
agape and dull
they celebrate,
a host of yellow rejections.
Daffodils © 2017 Fergus Deffely
Fergus Deffely - Author 