Daffodils

There is a pot of yellow daffodils on my window sill.

The edges are turning brown, and curling, and beginning to flake and

crack, like snakeskin.

But they stand tall and proud on my window sill, bringing a slice of spring

inside.

The middle of the petals are a creamy yellow,

a dreamy yellow.

and when I wake from my cocoon,

my crysalis of quilt, and the sun is mumuring,

humming round the heavy hanging curtains,

I see the crisp cracks of the edges of the yellow daffodils

on the window sill.

And last night, as I shed my clothes

like a lizard shedding old skin,

I see the daffodils are gone, and all that is left

is a ring on the wood

of my window sill.

But look closer, and there is a pile

of nutmeg coloured dust on the swept floor.

And I smile, and I know

in two years I will leave the cocoon of Bristol

and my life here.

And I too will be taken away and start again

with a new skin.

But I will leave a ring from many mugs of tea on my bedside table

beside the window sill.