Night Storm

This day someone had turned the technicolour on. 

We lift our sunglasses to check, and quickly put them down again. It is hard to tell colour from fire, flower from lava. 

Grandchild 2 is home with us, too poorly for school, and I too am feverish, though it is hard to measure when everywhere is hot. 

We need a sea breeze.

At the beach Grandad has good sandals for walking on low tide rocks; we do not, us Wild Girls, we put bare feet down on every surface, retract some, retry; then know the fullest joy in wet sand, in sea water swirling to our knees, all skirts tucked up. 

(Although on the roughest terrain, to get here, Grandad’s was the best hand to hold.)

The sea breeze is exactly as we had needed it. 

We paddle back, drink droves of fresh water; we drive home, windows downwardly wound, the little one sleeps and sleeps.

Later we go to work. The heat has seemed to dissipate. We come home, sit under stars to eat supper. 

Mr says there are not as many stars as he’d expected, maybe there’s cloud incoming.

So we open a bottle of wine, wander indoors, begin to feel sleepy.

A twitch in the electrics, a hiccup of light, a small clue only - Mr is shouting - ‘You have to come outside!’

Everything is lit.

It’s past midnight, the sky is flashing white - we can count leaves on trees, but their colour is drained; all the heat, all the colour has been drawn up to the sky!

We stand under the thunder, under the lightening, feeling each drop of rain, until the deluge comes - we can’t even open our eyes, we squint to the door. 

Blinds drawn up, we lie on our bed, rain dotted, exhilarated - the sky illuminate, the sky resounding; till we are dreaming gods and hammers, dreaming sea and sky.

In the morning all is washed green, and Mr has swallowed some thunder, it rumbles in his throat.