A poem for these times..


April, London

Eamon Lynskey


In Mile End Park the daffodils

explode again and he’s beside me


telling how they’re good as any

fringed the edge of Ullswater.


He talks about the beautiful,

the way it is inseparable


from the brutal. Think, he says,

the ghostly language of the earth:


its cresting waves: such majesty –

and threat. Its mountain peaks – reminders


of our frailty. And yet –

this splendid, fluttering host!


I think


the splendid, serried ranks that roared

at Nuremberg and prophesied


the bones and blitzmuck of this bombsite

underneath our feet. But yes,


they’re beautiful and good as any

trimmed the banks of Windermere


that spring that year. Or any year,

whatever bad our futures bring.


About Author


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