The Yellow Field

Daffodils in time, daffodils not mine.

Feeling heavy and bloated, big and small.

Can’t breathe so I reach for my red polo neck jumper. It’s cold for March.


Bought some shoes feeling the blues, but I still feel the same –

disrupted narratives continue to bother me.

Analyses pound my head as I look outside at the family tree.


Draft three gone and I’m still looking at the tree.

Connective branches rooted at the base,

So beautifully structured, I still try to see her face.

I see no closure; I’m still not free.

I’m thinking about her, is she praying for me?


‘Crack on poor dear,’ I hear myself say.

Draw from the base, no time for retreat.

Get back in the race.

‘You better crack on my dear for there is no other way.’

I hear her say.


Daffodils in time, daffodils not mine.

Meet me in the yellow field one more time and show me the way.


Emma Walters



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