Daffodil Hill
I knew that it was a bit of Heaven
when it grabbed my breath
and tore out tears.
Waves of golden yellow,
of creamy white,
of orange and red bells in white capes
blanketed the gentle roll of the hill.
Flowers of Spring as far
as the eye could see.
Boxed by paths full
of noisy flat-landers
who are struck dumb
by the flowered counterpane.
A walk through the front entrance
as clean a cut from sound
as the door of the funeral church.
So silent an awe
only the camera clicks
and the peacock’s call
punctuate the afternoon scene.
Children run along the path
as silent as the butterfly's
gliding flight.
Sleepy sheep graze and gaze
at the pastoral scene
suited for chapel ceilings.
Questions and beauty's praise
are whispered in the daffodil’s ear.
If this is Heaven's quilt,
are the 450,000 blooms
the gentle souls
of children who have run over such a hill?
Have they returned to celebrate
the blue sky and warm sun
of this once-a-year Spring day?
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