Gold frosts the morning; pale
yellow primrose faint, weak,
lacking turgor pressure,
but still smiling towards
the sun. And hellebores
too lay their blossom on the
ground, but in a huddle
as if caught by surprise,
faces shyly out of
sight. But bluebell, made of
sterner stuff, lance towards
the frosty air, dangling
their silent percussion
in jaunty defiance.