In bulb-beds in the public park, daffodils
lie headlong, scythed by Spring storms.
The rate of attrition is high: one in ten felled
beyond saving, fodder for slugs.
I triage the casualties, their snapped stems,
bruised blooms spattered with mud.
These I bring home, and a vase of water
will be their hospice: a tattered corps
of buglers sounding the last post.
