Between the Last Gold and the First Blue
Here, where the woodland tilts toward April,
the daffodils are fading,
their trumpets loosening,
their bright declarations softening
into a tired, papery gold.
They bow as if handing the season on.
Just beyond them,
the bluebells begin their quiet ascent,
colour gathering in their stems
like a thought forming,
a shy yes rising from the soil.
The air holds both at once,
the almost‑gone
and the almost‑here.
I stand in that narrow seam,
cup warm in my hands,
and feel the years fold.
Three springs without Joy,
yet she is everywhere in this turning:
in the daffodils’ gentle surrender,
in the bluebells’ hesitant courage,
in the way the light
keeps learning how to return.
She loved this woodland
when it was half‑awake,
when colour was still deciding itself.
Now the breeze moves through the stems
like someone brushing past
with familiar footsteps,
and memory rises,
not sharp, not breaking,
but soft as the bluebells’ first breath.
I let the moment take me.
The gold dimming.
The blue beginning.
And in the space between them,
her presence,
not lost,
just quieter now,
like a note the forest still remembers
long after the singer has gone.
Geof Spavins
08/04/2026
