Daffodil Girl

(probably should have posted this earlier in the month, but my seasonal sensibility is currently out of wack)

**Please note: daffodils (esp the bulbs) are poisonous–do not try this at home**





I once ate a daffodil in a pub

called ‘The Green Man’–

I’m not sure I was even drunk

at the time –it was a sunny afternoon,

just after a college assessment

and I was sitting at the bar,

chatting with friends,

when it caught my eye,

so I snatched it from its dinky vase,

bit its bright head off,

and munched it–

as if I wanted to taste for myself

the promise of spring

curled inside that golden trumpet–

the petals peppery,

surprisingly fleshy,

leaving a tang of ripe shallot.

The landlord glared at me in disgust,

I’d just scoffed his St David’s Day

floral tribute–but I couldn’t care less,

I was too full of youthful high spirits,

higher in proof than his stingy optic measures,

or any of his old, mild or bitter.

I was a daffodil in bloom,

bursting forth 

from a dark tuber of shyness,

into the light and the laughter.

Daffodil Girl

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