Wordsworth could only look back with
an inward eye – I have my daffodils
in the open eye.
It struck me at the time as a mirage
of summer, or some vast advancing horde;
a tsunami initiated
by the slipped plate of spring.
Whatever. It stopped me in my tracks;
configured in mobile camera mode,
I clicked several frames
as tourists do, this no everyday sight.
Daffodils have a short season, even
Wordsworth would preserve them
as they are, unblemished;
in the mind they fade, as a screensaver
they ride the tide of boredom.
