DAFFODILS
They flurry over the ffirst raw green of the hills,
Trumpet the Easter fields;
Bright flags with their orange yolks,
Bending under the flaying cruelty of April winds.
As if to prove that Calvin got it wrong,
That dark-lipped Luther in the cold austerity of history
Threw away the warm laughter of love
For the bare bones of theology.
Kenneth Steven