A Dream -- Sunday 25 October
I'm dancing in a field of daffodils, their yellow petals whispering like an old phonograph playing a long-forgotten melody. The sun's rays are fingers plucking strings on an invisible harp, each note a golden coin falling from the sky. I reach out, hands cupped, catching them mid-air. They're warm, these coins of sunlight, and they hum with the same tune the daffodils sing. I wonder if this is what joy sounds like when it's yellow.
In the distance, a lighthouse stands tall, its beam slicing through the sea mist, revealing a ship lost in time. On deck, sailors dance to the rhythm of the waves, arms outstretched like they're holding snowballs made of memories. The melody from the daffodils floats over, and they join in, their voices echoing the joyful tune. I can see them now, clear as day, though they're centuries apart.
In the distance, a lighthouse stands tall, its beam slicing through the sea mist, revealing a ship lost in time. On deck, sailors dance to the rhythm of the waves, arms outstretched like they're holding snowballs made of memories. The melody from the daffodils floats over, and they join in, their voices echoing the joyful tune. I can see them now, clear as day, though they're centuries apart.