I still thank you
for making the daffodils grow
outside my mother’s house

every spring scared she’ll forget
you   without reminders painted yellow
spilling onto the block paved driveway

the yellow trails into the house
sits in a vase on the kitchen windowsill
my mother tends to them
watching over the garden
she thinks of you
of the house
she grew up in

the kettle boils
you disappear
with the steam

I cut down every daffodil
I could find when you died
couldn’t stand to see my mother cry
yellow bloomed in my nightmares

they still blossomed
the next spring



Bethan Manley is 23 and studying a master’s degree in Creative and Critical Writing at the University of Gloucestershire after graduating with a degree in English Language and Creative Writing. Previously published in The Mountains You Cannot See, Postcards from Malthusia, and Voices.