DaffoHills

It happens sometimes in the middle of March. They are everywhere. In the parks, on the streets next to old trees, in the gardens, yards, on the roundabouts, between the motorway lanes, in forests and in the most unexpected corners of the neighbourhoods. That’s their beauty. Wordsworth was right when he wrote the poem Daffodils, his words are worth, indeed. 

The yellow petals are unconfutable, a whole palette of yellow shades combined. Perhaps the flowers are here for a reason. I would like to think that in each and every single daffodil there are tangled and shiny rays of the sun. They must know that the sun is not too generous yet, and the small miracles try to warm us. Fairy tales? Bedtime stories? I cannot help it. Believe it or not, they never fail. 

If you have a bad day, their simplicity cannot be omitted or ignored. If you have a great day, you are smiling knowing that someone is celebrating your happiness in colours. Either way, they can warm our inner universe. One here, two there, ten more, hundreds and thousands of yellow drops painting the grey canvas of London streets. 

If only daffodils could sing. Would there be someone truly listening in this hectic, never resting galaxy? What if they can actually sing? I am sure they do.  We just need to bend our knee, get a bit closer and listen carefully. Wow! Is that really working? You never know until you try, right? 

Bye traffic lights, bye trains and cars, bye crowded streets, bye pretentious clients and annoying costumers, bye-bye appointments and meetings. The entire city will be left behind and the buildings will be transformed in yellow hills, daffoHills.  Shall we give it a try? 

“My heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.”

William Wordsworth