The Raw Rain can Smear Dream to Shadow;  

Heavy Black Clouds Gather overhead, sit beneath the storm.

(A poem by Anthony Bevan)

I began in a dilemma. Do I go from the general or from the specific? (Do I make myself the focus or look at the community in general?) I decided to make myself the centre of the storm. The day before lockdown I broke my leg and spent the first few months in bed, out of circulation, then hobbling around with my leg in an air boot. No Park Run! No running! I spent my time gardening, reading, and painting, my fast-growing hair plaited down like that of a schoolgirl. I missed my children, my grandchildren (whose names are hidden on the mask), my mother being cared for at home in Bournemouth, and my brother and sisters.

I worked on my panel with my daughter, in different towns but linked by iPad and bound together across the miles by the red thread. The virtual mask that we always wore to hide ourselves, now has become a real mask which allows us to be seen. The eyes are frightened by the dream shadow but, behind them, the light still shines, the music plays. We keep dancing.