Granted, a daffodil

Granted, a daffodil or two
constricted in banded bunches
cheap enough, bucketed
so somewhere the golden hosts must flutter and cheer
flagging up spring? 
But miserably few the snowdrops
crocus drifting and lifting
hearts winter-numbed.
Hasn't it been a year, dreariest drear
sunless and grey, day after day after day...
Few indeed the blue skies, sunshine
any kind of promise, hang on, hope
if the teeth are grit
something with a hint of warmer 
summer's swallows swooping
serin yellow on the wires? 
England become Scandinavia
grizzled, saturated farmers' fields, flooding
snow. 

Do you suppose
that one duck-duvet, fast frozen 
dead of night oblivion, all of us sleeping
the Queen of the Snow, too glamourously glittering 
all cruelty and frost-bite, one glare to petrify? 
Oh I'll propose Her Majesty swept heedless cross the sky
and left us all be-wintered, spellbound
depression blanketing the land. 

12th March 2013, Brighton.