In the polytunnel a sunflower swells close to bloom. Peas climb and look merry; something in the curl of those tendrils: how they reach to the world. Leaves on a butternut squash, squash a few stray spinach plants and the leeks, encroached, will need a rescue soon. The tomatoes have their own cul-de-sac, opposite the nursery shelves that are stocked in repurposed pots. In here it simmers with life, it brews up out of the soil, this amazing overboil of leaf and frond. And even outside, it is hot.
Washing is crisp on the line.
After the storm, after the lightening bolts horizontal over the road ahead, after the one roll of thunder heard; the long deep roll over the moortop; a looking glass puddle at the roadside shows us the stilled sky, the tree branches leafed and quiet.
Dark swarms; washing is unpegged from the line. Squares of yellow and blue fold over the wire clotheshorse instead. Under the lean-to roof there is a problem with cats. Loganberries grow from a barrage of cardboard and empty coal sacks; grow like vines, heavy with fruit. Thunder bounds out, over the wild moors; rain on the plastic roof falls voluminous.
Through a cloud split, sun makes eyes squint. It lights the horizon, the portentous pods of cloud, forms a bold shadow from the fat-trunked ash.