Colin F. Jones

WHERE ONE DAFFODIL GREW

Where one daffodil grew,
Now there are thousands,
Blooming all yellow,
Then drooping.
The old rose vine by the gate,
Has been overlooked,
Its flowers
Are still red.
There never were thousands.
Left right,
Left right,
Go the rows of houses,
Marching!
Their gardens growing smaller:
Tree’s in plant-pots,
Where the buildings,
Are taller.
And where the insects fly
In their thousands.
Down there is a gutter,
With something
in it;
I think it’s dead.