Silvered

When a storm sweeps in, it smudges the mountains so that their profiles are obliterated; you’d never know they were there. I drive home from town and the rain is torrential; I can’t see the road meters in front of me – never mind the mountains – I slow to a crawl and watch the water rushing across the plains, forming shallow lakes.

Later, when it’s passed, I pull on wellies and whistle Jip up who tears around the garden like a mad thing, round and round she goes in ever deceasing circles wearing a huge dog smile: walks after the rain are best, she races back and forth through puddles delighting in their wetness and the sound they make as she rushes through them.

The cloud has lifted and sky is Omo washed bright and rinsed pale blue and the mountain is silvered with new snow.

And I watch until the light is low. And then I go home and a muddy Jip slumbers by the fire I light in the hearth and chases guinea fowl and partridge and occasionally a jackal.

One Response to “Silvered”

  1. Addy Says:

    Beautifully written. I can just picture it.

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