Wild Words by Kirsteen Bell: The reliable brightness of daffodils

They are small, quiet, at first: tiny snowdrops, hazel catkins shining gold, the deep red of birch filling with sap, threads of purple crocus twisting out of the earth – and then come the bright brash trumpets of daffodil.

Even the daffodils’ beginnings are radiant, tapering tips of yellow like candles that wait to unfurl in a blaze of colour, beaming brighter with the light of each lengthening day.

At the beginning of the month, green spears clustering on north facing slopes still keep their shadows, but, by the time we reach April, they will be as wide open as those whose faces are now gathering the sun from the south.

Each time I drive past the Marie Curie Field of Hope in Claggan, more flowers have appeared, like stars bursting through the dark.

Daffodils were brought to the UK by the Romans. They would apparently chew the bulbs for pain relief, those numbing narcotic qualities that gave the flower genus its Latin name, ‘narcissus’.

The bulbs, leaves and petals all do contain lycorine, which is toxic when ingested. For this reason, they seem to be one of the few spring plants growing wild that survive the onslaught from otherwise starving and voracious sheep.

Its common name, daffodil, is a derivative of asphodel, which famously beautified the fields of the ancient Greek afterlife.

Daffodil perfume drifts lightly over the wet decay of winter.

For me, daffodils are a wee reminder of what’s to come, a look ahead to the orange-yellow flames of bog asphodel that ignite in amongst the hill heather under summer sun, and a promise of resilience.