The crocus opens out to something
more than crocus, becomes a brief history
of time, the ology of cosmos, as a poem is—

impacted yellow of gold-dust, shape
of a baby-thumb all-tentative, prelude to a new year,
breath of fire from the dark earth, from the closed heart;

the rose-coloured: flush of love,
signature of the overture:—these sudden, these small
preliminaries—polyphony of crocus—demi-semi-quavers

of what will be an oratorio
of hollyhock, lupin, sunflower,
under the gold-full baton of the light.