Yet more gorse

I can't smell gorse without thinking of my cousin. She and I often walked the cliffs together.

A cold intrusion
Spring, the dawn of the year
and overnight the sun is changed
from an icy sphere
to a molten mass of heat.
From blackened remains of last year’s growth,
new life peeks, and soon peaks triumphant.
Canary yellow flowers of gorse vie with each other
for space on the overcrowded spiny stalks
and the warm air is filled with the scent of coconut.
I long to capture the beauty of it and go, arms laden,
over the hill to the room where she lies wasting.
Her winter has come early,
an unwelcome intruder in the summer of her life.