The Wildflower

Upon the bank of a winding river,
That snaked its way
Through the Wildflower Valley,

Beneath the swaying branches
Of ancient willow trees,
A dreamer sat alone.
Glassy-eyed.
Silent.
Sullen.

Though songbirds filled the air with music,
And a brilliant blue sky stretched overhead,
Tears welled within their eyes.

Their bare feet skimmed
The river’s surface.
Large blue and yellow fish rose and splashed.
Waterfowl drifted gently upon the current.
Sweet floral scents
Rolled down from the meadows beyond.

Yet none of it reached them.

The dreamer wiped their eyes
And lay back among soft silver ferns.
Unable to take comfort
In the beauty of that moment.

For they had known loss.

And all the wonders
Of the Dream Continent
Could not outweigh
The sorrow carried within their heart.

For a time they remained there,
Listening to the river,
Watching clouds drift overhead.

Then slowly they rose.
With measured steps
They crossed the wildflower fields,
Trailing their fingers
Across blossoms of every colour.

The lighthouse stood waiting in the distance.
Beyond it,
A boat waited upon the shore.
A vessel bound
For the waking world.

The dreamer boarded silently.
And the Dream Continent faded behind them.
They soon awoke within their bed.
Morning light filtered through the window.
Their hand remained clenched.
Slowly, they opened it.

Resting in their palm
Was a single wildflower,
Brilliantly coloured,
And impossibly real.