The sun's light was there, barely recognised, diffused through gunmetal grey. Storm wind shook out the deadwood, charged the lanes, loud as thunder.
At breakfast, sat at the hatched grain of the old table, we looked out of the windows. A white watery disc; hazed, indistinct: no sooner perceived than lost in miles of cloudy wool.
Rain in droves was blown over hedges. The tractor men drew loads; sodden fruity pong, a different kind of seasonal spice. The great wheels left tracks in the fields, knee deep at least.
There was lightening, this morning, our neighbour said. Our voices were stolen by the wind: we had to shrug and give up.
Paler grey and fixed, the sky, the rain seemed set in: but then the clouds tore open and there was the background as it always is: such blue.
All day the cloud re-felted, the wind ripped. The blue was there.
Dog took a run on the dung heap, chased the tiny birds she will never catch, earned herself a hosing and then snuck wet onto the sofa.
Night came, merged with the weather.
Above that black churn, there are stars.
|Dog on the dung heap, blurry but delighted.|