Tuesday, 31 May 2011
Daffodils were what my mother had for her wedding bouquet. And she was two months pregnant with me at the time. 'The Daffodils' was the name of the poem my father had me learn by heart as a child, standing on a chair and reciting with pride. It was a favourite of his and his father before him. Daffodils were the gift my mother always received on Mothers' Day, and what I received on my first Mothers' Day. No wonder they mean so much ot me: they have punctuated the tenderest moments and bonds of my life. I look out for them from the first moment I feel a little warmth on late winter's breath. I look out like a child searches a crowd eagerly for a returning parent. The first one I see is so joyful, so fulfilling; a promise delivered; a burst of glee in my heart. It seems almost ridiculous that a mere flower could have such an effect. But its warm yellow face is an echo of summer from a future yet to happen. A snowdrop is the first hope of spring, but a daffodil is the promise of it. And if a snowdrop is the first faint whisper of spring, the first daffodil is the moment the season sings out 'Ta da! I'm here!'
It is just as the poem says: 'And then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils'.