My ancestors spent nights
carving oak, steady hands
to an uncertain future.
hardened by callouses,
found strength to create.
Used knives to find beauty,
used beauty to build a
A twisted stem that vowed his life
to her, survives the flowers we offer
today. A daffodil sculpted from oak
signals a growing nation. The daffodil
on my windowsill
still in bud.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Bethan Manley would be pleased to hear them.