Gathering Daffoldils

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.