The sky was clear earlier, just a few clouds skudding past as the sun set, the sky deepening in azure blue as the night arrived. But now, less than two hours later, the wind has picked up the leaves that had fallen early because of the drought. The storm is blowing around the house like an old steam engine, puffing and panting, whistling and roaring. I could imagine gouts of flame shooting out its boiler.
One minute all is quiet, then gusts blow down the chimney, the air in the room cools and stirs. The cats have come in to seek shelter, yet they are restless, torn between comfort and agitation. Nose to the glass looking out at the chaotic movement of the air…
The traffic noise is amplified by the wind. Unseen cars blur past in a loud buzz, like bees scattering from a hive seeking food at breakneck speed.
Still no rain in this gale, tiles rattle but not from raindrops, this storm is selfish and does not want to share its water. Jealous of allowing the land to drink. Will it rain? Perhaps, maybe wet the feet of the trees.
I think of the poor and destitute. Wrapped in an old duvet or plastic bag for shelter. How will they cope with no roof to protect them? This storm is the first of the season, big bulky winds rattling plastic sheeting, tearing it from cold bodies. Why are they unhomed, unheeded, unheated, uncared for?
In a land due to celebrate the centenary of the end of the first world war, in a land that was fit for hero’s, we have gone back to the maelstrom of survival of the fittest and devil take the hind most.
My safety from the wild wind is their loss. I grieve for them.
