With the bulbs prematurely forcing their way through the cold soil I started to dwell on the myth behind the narcissus flower and the following poem came about ......
Golden Mimosa brushed his lips
Silver orchids at his fingertips
White roses round his ankles, toes
Between those toes a tiny rose
Upon his splendid head twined laurel,
Ivy, bluebells, lillies, sorrel
A body fine and handsome he
He pined away so lovingly
Enraptured by his own facade
Now captured on a Grecian vase
And in that lovely flower in spring
Narcissus' only offering.
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