Field of Buttercups
A whole field oiled by sunshine;
we scamp through them like children,
laughing as we carve the yellow ocean
wave on wave, delighting in the million
gleaming faces lifted to the day.
No need to hold them underneath our chins:
we're wading home with butter on our shoes.
If you've any comments on this poem, Gill McEvoy would be pleased to hear from you.