Young Boy with Daffodils

You are perfectly a boy
standing amidst daffodils.
Lines of energy sport
and engage you —young vorticist—
they belong to the burnish of pollen
on your cheek-bones,
and the vegetable world alone.
Your hand trails a stem
that registers the clock in you
set to bloom.
Small gusts fill the darker
green and broken swathe
you have cut away from me.
Beyond, a flowering arch
frames your father and brother.
Soon your track will turn to them.
But for this instant
I've called you back,
wedded you to the brief host
of yellow heads, the living and the dead,
that jump at your hands and thighs.