In a caravan by Plaitford Common

An August storm spawned a tantrum wind that stomped across the heath, kicking the heather, shaking the gorse and slapping the tails of donkeys.

A misty rain muttered in the treetops but the leaves, conciliatory as ever, simply nodded and agreed. 

The thirsty earth drew the water downward. 
Dry bones of soil soaked up the welcome wetness 
and the worms rose silently;  
like long pink tendrils of a tender plant. 

But it was night; 
a dark, buffeting blackness
stretched from the shivering leaves 
to the shape-shiftlng clouds in the showering sky. 

Slowly I sank in the ocean of sleep rocked by the wind and  
lulled by the rain on the roof 
like a long lullaby.  

 

(c) A McNaught