I’m comfortably ensconced in my arm-chair,
the sun-drenched red-plush table cloth close by;
unread I let Planck’s quantum theory lie –
my life’s prime scientific aim – and stare:
for I see tulips, see a mighty storm
of flames both light and dark; before I know it,
my hand’s a hare in silhouette – I show it
nibbling and munching from the blazing swarm;
and the front oblong of a match-box blurs
into a patch of hyacinthine blue,
with hazy silver lustres, as if dew
sifted across the field like fresh spring spray...
I start at this my sudden thought, perverse:
tulips are red, philosophy is grey.