The blue walls are dappled with miniature rainbows, a result of the crystals that hang in the window as they pick up the rare sunshine of a winter's day. I watch the smooth blue glass sway a little, disturbed from its sleep by the fresh air that comes in through the open windows. I air out the house, allow the hibernating dreams to dislodge themselves, especially the forgotten ones hidden high in the corners of this room. I imagine them as they slowly drift outdoors, tentative at first, only to find delight as they dance across the bog and the crooked stone walls and gather speed over the naked willow trees, careful not to brush against the bright yellow thorny gorse.
- ''Off you go dreams'', I whisper ever so softly, ''have a little jaunt but be sure to come back by four thirty pm because it will be dark by then and this sunshine will be long gone''.
The dreams laugh at me and tease me, almost mock me for my scepticism. I insist on telling them that this day is only a small token, a gift of sorts, a reward for surviving the gales and the constant rain and the muddy boots and the steaming damp clothes and the cabin fever and the invisible horizon that was once so defined. This day is the contrast effect. Without it we would be doomed.
I take my tea and go to sit on the stoop at the front door. One of the dogs ambles over to sit beside me in a companionable way. We are two dreamers, we are, basking in this rare December day, that makes me wish there would be no end to this warmth, no end to the rainbows that hug the blue walls, no end to the stash of dreams that will surely return and settle back into their rightful place as soon as the night begins to fall.