Another gorgeous evening on the wasteland as the sun was setting, the camomile golden, the air sweet with its scent, the long grass still in the calm air, Great Tits, Blue Tits, Gold- Chaff- and Greenfinches, Blackbirds … so much song.
The red bricks of the train yard were burning, the sky above black with a band of cloud. And when the sun set below it, all its caves and rills were lit. Swifts passed under them; Crows perched on the ice rink domes and watched.
A column of cloud descended, light grey spilling from the dark like molten mix. It took the aspect of a funnel, tornado-like. It wouldn’t be the first one I’ve seen from here.
A bright yellow caterpillar catches the sun, paired black dots along its length so stark in contrast to its colour. I’d never have seen it had the light not touched the grass so low in the sky.
It seems like something fierce is rising behind the offices to the west, though in truth it’s many miles away and many high.
We see the storm line cross us overhead, faint white in front of the black like wave foam. The wind picks up. The birds land. The light’s metallic blue by the roil. It starts to rain. One drop. Three. Then a cascade of large, cool water. It’s wonderful.
What drama in such short time. Like Shakespeare in the Globe, but we were centre stage and all the audience were acting. The stagehands were hard at work pulling ropes, hauling great sheets of cloud around the lantern.
I feel changed. We feel changed. As the other day when half an arch of rainbow was left upon the sky, and then, when it was fading, fullness shot its length and lit it bright.
How our hearts soared.
How mine soars still.
