Annabel Gilmour

An amber lustre softly sculpts the meadow, a lone candle concurrently defying and defining darkness. Filtering through the leaves, a golden beam falls as the light of freedom on my face. I can almost feel the warm hold of the ray as it caresses my cheek; soft, supple skin grazing against mine. The yoke of the Sun slips into the promise of tomorrow, pulling the curtain of night along with it, itself a shield against the vituperation of the rest of the world. Stars remain as scars where the fabric of the sky has been hole-punched with gunpowder kisses, a glittering reminder that even in the midst of destruction you can find beauty.
I see my own problems reflected in the canvas as a notch in the belt of Orion: an insignificant speck of something in the great extent of time. Wind whistles past, whispering to me of hope and love and sometimes I hear it speak of my freedom; liberation from the incarcerations of this annexe. Imagining a time where a yellow star is no more than a childlike wish.
Twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are.
Buttercups and daisies shoot up between the tousled tufts of grass, a distant echo from past lives and childhood games - daisy crowns, daisy chains, do you like butter? Poppies, too, that here are not a paper promise of forget-me-not but the real, living pledge to not be forgotten. Birds cheerfully chirp their gratitudes, praises sung like a melodic wave of calmness that washes over me. The iridescent moon installs itself above me, a parent whose light will guide me and a guardian angel who will watch over me.
Knowing I will wake from this dream does not dilute it, instead, making it my own pocket of freedom; a jewel of hope that I can hold close to my heart.
Come morning, I will wake and peer out of the window (a real life manifestation of my dream) and find myself ready to face the day with courage.

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