At around this time of year, the daffodils fade. The abrupt golden cheerfulness of early spring turns into something a little more complex. Faded petals crumpling into brown rags, a stubborn scrap of death in the springtime garden. Conventionally one deadheads, but in this case it seems brutal. The daff won't flower again for having its head chopped off. So I let them stand.
These are from my own garden, of course, but across the UK there are Marie Curie Fields of Hope taking the same short walk from one kind of beauty to another, hope into memories. Mournfulness tempered by the beauty of faded petals.