Thirty Four

I wandered lonely as a cloud…
‘George are you coming out of the bookshelf at some point today?’
That floats on high over vales and hills
When all at once I saw tall and proud
My Bichon Frisé, Daffodil,
‘George?’
Beside the bench, beneath the trees
Twirling and prancing in the breeze
‘George come on. We’re off’.
I’m not talking to you Pips. I am composing a poem to Daffodil, my lost love, taking inspiration from the great poet himself, William Wordsworth, who had a fine appreciation of daffodils, of all sorts, unlike you. I wander lonely as a cloud…
That floats alone up in the blue
Because Daffodil was not allowed
to be with me, Pips is so cruel
And though I search hither and thither
I have not found her whither or nither. Pips? Is ‘nither’ a word?
‘George we’ve got to get to the Post Office before it shuts and Sainsbury’s. I haven’t got all day’.
Now when here on my shelf I lie
In thoughtful and reflective mood
‘Why is everything such a fight with you? Hurry up, come on!’
She skips into my mind and sighs
Oh Georgie if you only would
‘NOW George! Or you won’t be eating tonight because there’s no food left in the flat’.
Daffodil I will have to finish my poem for you later otherwise I will have no dinner tonight….