Truculent, I trudged across the muddy public park,
narked at pure necessity of popping to the shops.
Wild winds whistled, wuthering and, though dank rain had stopped,
grey, glowering clouds gloomed, gathering; the sky was drawing dark.
Hurriedly, I hastened, ‘til my eye was drawn to that
bedraggled bunch of daffodils, all looking lorn and lost,
a smattering of stragglers, not Wordsworth's golden host
not standing to attention proud, but fallen feebly flat.
Horrified, I looked at them and learnt, to my disgust,
some vicious, violent vandal had severed all the stalks.
Sad, tattered, tuneless trumpets were lining all the walks.
The flattened flowers had met an end so terribly unjust.
Mortified, I realised that I had been unfair:
the architect of damage was not louts but whirling wind.
Slain stems, not scattered wildly, were lying all aligned
in one precise direction and laid to rest with care.
Comforted, I hope, though this year's blooms are dead, that they
will boost brave bulbs beneath them, whilst sleeping in their beds,
sun enriching glad, green leaves, to lift, next March, their heads
and rise in resurrection, gold to grace St. David's Day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem