Beneath these daffodils my mother rests. She had been gardening to within a day of her death.
In July last year, all the family took a hand to carry her casket up this hill, sliding slightly in the mud. In the autumn, my sister and nephew planted bulbs above her. Last weekend, I sat on the bench looking down across patches of spring flowers and shrubs marking graves, set among taller trees, looking west across farmland to the distant Malvern Hills.
I struggled to capture this view with conte crayon on dark textured Ingres paper. It is too bright, with too many colours. At home, I kept coming back to this until I had to repair a hole in the paper and the chalked surface would take no more. I cropped the image so the broken trees lead the eyes out beyond the edge. It no longer resembles the true image but feels a better representation to me.