May Day

He overslept, and so missed out on all

The early morning rites up on West Hill

To dance-in May Day morn and sense the thrill

As sunrise answeres Herne the Hunter's call.

But later on our strolling sonneteer

Found tulip beds demanding to be viewed,

Their garish clashes of acrylic hues

(No pastille shades of water colour here)

Rang out across the un-mown grass in shoals

Of pink and lilac, orange-maid and red

Vying to be the brightest in each bed.

To print themselves upon a poet's soul.

          Daffodils may have tripped up Wordsworth's mind

          But Hasting's Tulips are not far behind! 

Brian Hick May 2008

©copyright Sally Hick 9.5.22