Consensus being, last night, she’d scored.
Full of the joys of spring she was,
as she proposed we each write a poem
on dafferdills. “I wandered lonely as a cloud …”
sprang to mind, except, Miss remarked,
William Wordsworth beat me to it.
Fair enough. So, some you win, some …
you lose. Who can blame a girl for trying?
And so, my gaze strayed toward the window.
“Don’t day-dream, Daphne,” she scolded.
Felt like saying, “Your loss not mine, Miss,”
if she was that short-sighted she couldn’t see
beyond the end of her nose. Amongst the grass
under the trees, there was a load of them.
Who needs poems, when beauty speaks for itself?