The daffodils arrive
like a herd of harmless lions,
daytime stars balancing
on alien-green fingers. 

The daffodils arrive
like a butter-trumpet orchestra,
a set of cheesy lips
puckering up for a kiss.

The daffodils arrive
like chicks playing musical statues,
yawning tennis balls,
a family of whistling canaries.

The daffodils arrive
like silent fireworks,
golden full stops
on the dark afternoons.

Carl Burkitt 2025