To Daffodils

Exactly where they were found does not really matter.  The truth is that someone threw them out.  We kept the bulbs safely in the shed away from marauding rodents and others until last week when I sunk them into a selection of re-used terracotta pots, plastic bowls, planters, all the usual stuff that we get given.

I know two poems about daffodils.  Wordsworth's, The Daffodils, which I learned at school which begins I wandered lonely as a cloud... and Herrick's To Daffodils which I found in my old Victorian anthology Palgrave's Golden Treasury:  Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon:

So this week, the teacher in me suggests a challenge: write about planting spring bulbs.   You could try verses in the style of Wordsworth or Herrick; you could describe going to the garden centre or the pound shop; pondering where to plant or stuffing them into spaces.  As a colleague of mine used to say - when writing descriptively use your five senses.  But PLEASE DON'T try eating them, as daffodils are poisonous.

Plant bulbs now to benefit later from your own spring memories such as Wordsworth's.  Or just write the poem.