The Daisies

The hill of feral daisies is in flower again,
I know they are a weed,
But beautiful in their bounty nonetheless.
They measure the Springtimes,
Since I met you.
Despite the fact that we have parted.
You, like the daises are part of me.
And when I see them,
It is that Summer,
All over again.
When I fresh-faced picked posies,
To fill my small rented cottage.

I remember,
How each year they slowly crept,
Out from their stronghold,
The travelling stock reserve,
And down the road like each seasons,
Grazing  cattle.
The cows and the cars,
Have spread them almost to town.

The other afternoon,
As I was driving home,
I saw a patch on my own road.
The daisies are moving closer to me.
So I shall have an annual reminder
Near at hand.