Daffodils Poem by Jerry Pike

Down at the cemetery medals, I drift,
no twitching mind, but there,
a millionaire sits up,
bumping into my thoughts,
a past teacher of lessons.
His staff would only plant March daffodils,
if visitors were due, an instant home,
grown for other’s eyes,
some yellow to give him cred.
Before the motorway sliced
its brown muddy death walk, through them,
even his occasional yolk field, died.
And these medals, just two,
they weren’t there,
when I sold him
the daffodils.