Easter Weekend
I.
I wake to see sun-bathed tree-tops
Reflected in the white, wardrobe doors
Like colour polaroids of my childhood garden.
And turn over to watch daylight
Run down the trees
Like honey on the breakfast jar.
II.
Daffodils
Chatter in the wind,
Their excited bonnets bobbing and nodding,
Children dutifully waiting, at the church door.
While great clouds
Hunt winter from its den,
Galloping and charging over hill and glen
Their barrels skirting tree-tops along the way.
Long brush-like
Tales, trail behind them
Sweeping the last vestiges of autumn
From the garden path, mottled by passing showers.
III.
A rainbow rises
Bright, promising, but not to be.
A sweet half-eaten, sucked
Then stuck like gum against the sky.
The first buds
Break open with worshipping hands
Called forth by each glimmer of an architect sun
Ready to build cathedrals by rule of thumb.
IV.
At night I go to sleep
With thoughts only for nature’s return
And know it is but a matter of time.
Before I fall for her
Before I fall for her
And all her summer fun and mid-riff trickery.
Again.
Daffodil
No daffodil should be alone
An orphaned child, pleasing
But bowed in sorrow.
February 2016
Simon Denegri Poetry 