Stormy Sunday

A lazy afternoon in a warm garden with a satisfyingly chunky book. Breeze riffling the pages, the occasional yew needle landing in my hair. The breeze picks up, the sky turns grey. Still warm, but bring the book inside for safety and sit by an open window instead. The sky darkens, lights on in the afternoon like it was November. A distant flash from the corner of my eye, then the sky lights up and the rain turns on like the most invigorating shower. Rain like a grey curtain concealing the valley, the wood, the nearby houses. Rain hissing and splattering as it fills the gutter and pools on the neighbour’s garage. Rain drumming on the roof demanding to be let in, competing with the thunder. Rain running down the road, the pavement, pooling where it can, straddling the T-junction. Wildflower meadow flattened, its strimmed paths obliterated. The cat yowls to be let out, to show that this is his territory and not even the forces of nature can drive him out of it. But I keep him in the dry warmth of the living room, listening to the rain, within easy reach of the hand that isn’t holding the book.

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