It was a memory of long ago, that Yellows step danced to that day. The dragon and his fire and the white dragon that was defeated on the cliffs in a land far away.
It was the day of the dragon, the leek and the daffodil and Yellow was remembering her bonnet and the twmpath dawns. She tried to stretch her mind further around the corner of the large hall, to the kitchen, to the smells of the day. But, alas, she couldn’t see.
The church hall, stoic and refusing to fade in a Godless world.The bell rings, and the cross shines, but everyone gathers at the Chapel.
The river gushes but you have to peer over the hundred year old wall since the last flood broke the Teddy Bear bridge; Dad told me a tree got in the way and the water rose and a damn formed and the village sunk.
The people are dotted round the village like trees with their roots buried deep within the soil that is beneath layers of concrete and tar. The park is a gathering of old faces and we are still outsiders. No roots here. Roots scattered far and wide.
Grandmothers hand down their shawls to their grandchildren to wear to the dance. The colours are faded by the passage of time, but still they belong to old streets.
Daffodils lain here and there and shoes tapping. How was Yellow to know all these moments would be stitched together to give her a ground beneath her feet?
Yellow, the colour of a daffodil and always a newbie in a place the opposite of brand new. But finally ‘home’ becomes a little more tangible, and a place that perhaps Yellow will revisit with her heart in toe.