The rain came clattering down on Saturday evening. Barrelling blue and bruised into the garden. It was if the sky had popped, finally, after weeks of waiting, clouds swelling to impossible and promising dimension before vanishing like whispers. Not on Saturday though, on Saturday the heavens lost a grip of their weight and it all came tumbling down.
The roof on our new house is red tiled and so the orchestral drumming is tidily muted. I’d rather corrugated iron sheets where the cacophonous beat of water on tin drowns out conversation, silences music, renders the television mute. A roar above our heads. I can still hear myself think under a redtiledroof. Sometimes I’d rather not.
And then, in the still sodden aftermath, when the ground breathes steam and the trees shiver with delight in damply diamond studded drapes and the birds come back to chattering life, conversations reignited as if they never stopped (the briefest hiatus, like gossips who refused to be arrested in their anti-fact gathering missions) the air moves with the gauze wings of a hundred termites which erupt with the downpour from meringue fragile tunnels in the ground where they have lain in wait. I have watched, in the past, another garden, a different home, one with a tin roof, as the earth took flight in a million fluttering wings only to be snaffled up by the greedy jaws of two Labradors, a pair of cats and the snapping beaks of a couple of obstreperous geese. An early morning banquet: my little menagerie vying for the biggest catch (the dogs carefully observing a respectful distance where the cats and the geese are concerned).
One cat’s demise and another’s advancing years mean no feline feasting this morning. The geese are long gone and I think my dogs are too well fed? So the termites brief flight of birthing ecstasy will be a little longer than it might have been.