I hug an unruly bunch of excitable young daffodils.
Squeaking and giggling in nervous wind -
still peeping from costume-drama bonnets,
shedding modest sepia onion-skin shawls
a princely Sun is coaxing open.
To announce himself reborn, fit.
Fashioning for the purpose – what wit!
a trillion golden trumpets,
blown from winter’s dying lips.
Slowly buttering first pale light:
the cold illumination of stars -
modelling the floral metaphor
in effulgent gold molecules,
translucent yellow flesh.
Sealing coiled revelation of the season
inside imploded bulb ciphers.
Chosen by me after millions of years -
to spark a whole home, spring a dusty family.
Leaking gooey flower blood - glooping
my naked arm crooks.
Kissing my neck like hysterical fans.
Dazzled, my moley winter eyes pinprick,
grow golden irises like a wolf.
I am crazed by osmotic green injection -
my blind saffron-powdered mouth suddenly trumpeting!
The human-silent sound I know they uproariously choir:
bugle. I translate. My barmy canary face likewise singing,
aureate. The sun is in me too!
I am pagan Prometheus, running bonkers
with my blazing cache
from the woods’ promiscuous crucible, Narcissus coup.
Possessed by manic daffodil spirits.
Hooded adolescents rioting - slim, tight-bodied,
even into tarmac-defended towns, sly suburbs.
For my own home coffers -
littered only with nibbled winter bones,
gnawed white sticks, picked leaf skeletons;
little mute bird skulls
like musical instruments: dead flutes.
I have stolen the jaunty fire of spring.