Ah the daffodils, yellow-blasting the white stillness
of coldflakes in the morning, gold trumpets shaking
crunchy crystals from shivering lilybuds.
And a red-faced wren, caught with a nasty slither
in its birdmouth, gobbles breakfast
to a sun-wakening songwall.
That was the dawn, the rising time, when music
swirled around like a tuney mist and the newborn, cheeky Light
gave old doddery Night the rosy finger.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem