Ten years ago today my father died. Nine years ago I dreamt he visited me. When I awoke I wrote this poem.

Golden Daffodils

A year after you died,
you appeared, alive and well
at the foot of my bed.

While my body slept, we
strolled together through the wood
behind the house.

It was good to get the chance
to tell you all the things
you’d missed since we last met.

We stopped just where the birches thin
and fields unfold in waves.
We watched as dawn clouds raced across the sky.

I left you there.

Tomorrow, I’ll take flowers to your grave,
golden daffodils you helped me gather
last night in the wood.

Your favourite flowers, you said,
with their promise of spring
their promise of re-birth.


Magi Gibson

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