Our tiny, tangled patch of grass nursed jonquil bulbs. Mid-March, stems thrust up, citrine trumpets flounced by white skirts burst
through and opened. Bloomed in bracing breezes, danced freedom, for Spring had come.
Since then, confined to home, I have watched them every day – seen them nod, heard whispers as, rooted to the spot, they play.
My moods swing roundabout, resilient high and morbid low. I look and wish that I could stand fulfilled, like them, and sway.
Sometimes, I wish that jonquil was my given name. Then, maybe I’d have a chance – perhaps mature and learn, accept my distanced lot.
Today, with godhead safely risen, jonquil-heads are tinged with brown. Petals curl and take their leave – return to rot and mulch my garden’s ground.
At first their loss, another one, greys out frail hopes of better days –
and yet, when I close my eyelids a legacy is evident: sunned images remain.
My friends, marooned in time and place, calm agitation to a standstill. With grace they show all things will pass –
many uncertain instants –
all eternal cycles day and night, good and bad, life and death.
By Ceinwen Haydon