daffodils - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
There were flowers in a vase upon the wooden table. James wondered if it had grown there, for it was the many hues of rich wood, comforting to the eye as nature is. From the top there were so many daffodils, fresh from the garden, the rolling incline that had become so rich with their golden heads, dancing as Phoenix-flames to warm the season.
I awake to a field of daffodils, every one a sunny yellow and I feel the bile rise in my throat. Each one is perfect, a golden trumpet amid a fanfare of halo petal. They are many, but so delicate, and they wave like tomorrow is guaranteed. They stand rooted, soaking in the sunshine and taking in yesterday's rain through their fine roots. I want to protect this place, throw a force-field over it but even my back up power is draining and how could I justify using it on these blooms that move in the wind - a living ocean of light. I smell their fragrance and brush against them, will I ever see a sight like this again? It is always transitory to the season but before I always believed it would return in due course. Now I can barely look without welling up, each one is a fine work of art, something I couldn't create in a thousand lifetimes. But progress knows no sentiment it seems and a love of this land is a weakness we can't afford...
Fields of yellow enveloped me, as I laced myself through thousands and thousands of tall daffodils. I felt free, in a sense that I was away from them; those robotic people trapped in a daily routine, tangled between to-do lists, whilst I was dancing with the sunrays- crisp air surrounding me, and soft sweet petals brushing gently against my bare legs. They were all lonely souls surrounded by lonely souls in a big city made of remote stone buildings; and I felt so loved within golden gardens of daffodils.
Lying on the damp spring grass, the yellow heads of daffodils bobbed and swayed in the wind that had been picking up as the afternoon progressed. I wondered if you were the last person on earth to see something as simple as a daffodil, would your grandchildren ever believe you that it had existed? That perfect trumpet shape, crinkles softly undulating the edges, petals fanning around the outside like a carnival head-dress. More beautiful than citrine, yet passing, fleeting and vulnerable.