The Storm

Contrasts, that’s what makes us perceive life and so it was on the ‘Storm’ day.

The sun shone yellow like a great sunflower in the sky. A light breeze whispered through the grass; the heavy pollen bound heads swaying to and fro, as a festival crowd might do. There was a faint hum of insects, serenading the nectar proffering roses & clematis of the garden. The wisps of horses’ tails gently swishing, guarding grazing steeds from the more carnivorous insects and small puffs of white vapour meandering across the sky. It was an idyllic British lunchtime, fit for fruit & ice-cream helped down with more fruit in a glass full of Pimms.

As lunchtime progressed towards mid-afternoon, a more ominous atmosphere fell across the land. Haze built across the scene, the Pimms not purely responsible for this blurring demeanour. A dark gloom befell the garden as cumulonimbi coalesced & darkened. All breeze evaporated, replaced by a thick clammy moisture that nought could escape. Farm animals headed for shade and lay down in groups, solemnly gazing at the oppressive skies. Now it was only the buzz & whine of troublesome insects that could be heard; an angry mixture of sounds that assaulted the ears at an apparently much amplified decibel, courtesy of the stark contrasting silence, an all purveying quiet.

Pi-pit-pitter a few small drops of warm quenching water fell to earth, gently dampening the hard-baked ground and releasing that sweet petrichor. Now a few large drops gather, coercing insects to flee for hedgerow cover whilst bouncing the poor caterpillar right off his tasty leaf.

C-R-A-S-H a huge blast of thunder announces its presence to all within ten miles, the aftershocks rumbling on across the sky, shaking the rain drops from their clouds like peas popped from a pod. We scuttle for cover, drinks in hands and now the rain bounces from the yard that shall soon become a small lake. A huge flash of searing blue-white propels current from cloud to earth. Its little pre-bolts having emanated upwards, just moments before, from the crest of one poor tree. That completed plasma charge shrieking out with raucous voice as nature’s might shatters the trunk of said tree in two.

A torrent is now running past our window, washing clean the collected dust of dry spell, which shall soon be replaced with tender shoots green reaching upwards, perhaps to replace the shattered tree in years to come. An hour of violence, noise & precipitate force is now replaced by evening’s gentle colours; pastels viewed through twisting mists of evaporating waters. An afternoon of contrasts.

What shall tomorrow bring?

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