In the Garden: Daffodil


One of the more difficult denominations.
No artless formula of psalms, collect,
And-now-to-God-the-father; unrelenting ministry
Of the solo conscience. Mankind’s cheerless concerns
Can drop in here like friends

And yet the daffodils, she says

And yettishness: a state of mind.

O yes, of course the world is harsh
And suffering, O yes — and yet
This morning, as I walked along
And saw the daffodils, I thought —
And so forth, daffodilling on.

Easier not to meet each others’ eyes.

And yet, and yes, the daffodils
Making their point, in scurfy gardens,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Municipally distributed, like grit.
Wherever a bulb can lodge and multiply,
Long-legged, gape-mouthed, a yellow hop in air,
Daffodils are.
Homelessness, poverty,
Injustice, executions, arms trade, war
Are too.

The stillness isn’t easy with itself.

And yet, and yet.

Daffodil Ministry, U. A. Fanthorpe