All at once, every daffodil shoot standing patiently to attention
explodes into flower in a tidal wave of golden synchronisation
like popcorn kernels bursting to treat in rapid fire succession.
Who needs a red carpet when bold bright trumpets line every road –
announcing Spring and promising yellow-bricked travel all the way home?
It feels as if every bloom-decked lane has been decorated for you alone.
Someone told me our daffodil miles are legacies of the Second World War,
when flower crops were pushed aside so vegetables could come to the fore,
that planting daffodil bulbs along verges was like a vast seed bank store…
What a win for the English motorist, that they still line all our highways
like ground-bound bunting strung up in time to mark the Easter holidays,
vivid aisles of glowing petal sunshine that annually amaze.