Daffodils. A Poem by Clare McKenna

Besides the sound of the distant bass,
It’s quiet.
And still.

For the last two days little children have been running around the grass.
Picking Daffodils.
The Daffodils are all gone now, but they will grow back again.
And maybe the children will return to play.

I watched a man pray on his balcony.
And a young women shouted over to me to tell me it was her birthday.
The skyline is clear and clean, like the pollution has lifted.
Maybe the world needs this break?
I think of those effected, suffering or who have passed.
My whole being prays for them.
And that I will be healthy too.
Because despite everything I have experienced and examined.
It’s taken this and your death to convince me that I want to live.
That I have something to give. Share.
That there maybe really is a reason for everything.
And that out of this isolation.
This silence.
My voice will return.
Like the Daffodils.
Bright, beautiful.
Loud and clear.
With a function.

And the children will return to play.
Run around.
Happy and free.
Plucking away at my wisdom.



Clare McKenna is a writer from Dublin.

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