When the Rain Came …

When the storm presses its thumb print heavy on the sky it bruises it fifty shades of grey, finger paints it in careless daubs, from smoke to deep black.

Clouds belly so low they almost touch the earth, pregnant with promise and rain which will fall heavy, heavy onto red earth so that it bleeds into puddles the will lie for days, shrinking slowly shallower.  

Jip will race through them, her head low and happy and her tongue lolling pink as she smiles a broad dog smile.  She’ll tread ochre prints all over the floor when we get home. Sometimes I must take a towel to her and she wriggles with pleasure as I rub her dry.

Nature feels so near then. I feel her breath on my face. I am thrillingly exposed, a frisson I feel on my skin and which tickles my nose, the perfume of approaching rain. Like a dangerous lady who has sprayed too liberally from a bottle of scent.

I love walking as a storm rattles in. The heavens feel so close, all the celestial bodies leaning in and complaining in thunder that grumbles round the mountain. I can hear only that and the wind as it races through trees so that whole chorus lines of leaves pirouette to the ground, spinning, spinning until they collapse and curtsey in the dust.  

The house will shout out a warning, ‘it’s coming, a storm, it’s coming’ and windows will clatter and doors slam shut. Later rain will slap the glass and I will watch the ceiling for the brown tea stain of leaks.

I got in just in time.  I don’t always.

2 Responses to “When the Rain Came …”

  1. James Culverwell Says:

    That’s stunning, thank you!

  2. Tamsin Hickson Says:

    And now I find myself longing for a storm!

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