Today we were given our old weather back, which must have
been an error: a muddle up of cloud paperwork perhaps or a practical joke, or
the storm had got home and remembered it had left its keys or a glove and had
to come back to retrieve: it had a half hearted feel to it like it was bored of
all this flood destruction too. Someone says, convincingly, that tomorrow the
sun is strongly rumoured to be thinking of paying us a visit but, despite this
swell of optimism, meticulous inspection reveals the weekly forecast symbols as
a series of repeats: one podgy cloud, wringing wet. Days like these are good
for dreaming.
Coconut rice steams in the oven. Lime pickle sharp against
the salt-sweet rice; balmy spices in our Leftovers Curry. A conservatory is
dreamt of: humid and abundant. It smells of citrus and coffee with undertones
of damp slate. Viewed through glass roof frames the sky is continuously
perfect.
Back in reality, in the field, the welly boots stick in
mud, squelchy, still funny.
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