Monday, 7 July 2014

and still the sycamore sings

Yesterday I was sitting on the swing in the garden in Mullindress a few minutes after a heavy downpour of rain so grey it swallowed the silver sand on the strand and for a moment at least we were all lost in the lining of the clouds. At the end of the din the clouds scattered, the sky shone blue and the sun tickled rooftops, sending pockets of light from chimney to thistle and off on to the horizon.

Just before the silence that only an island hillside can bring- a noisy quiet that is shrill and sweet in equal measure- the rain had pounded on the patio, its words a language I couldn't quite understand.

And then the tree began to sing, its rain-soaked melody cracking the bough of the sycamore, its light chasing the sea spray, its song like magic. There is a powerful music in that tree and one day, soon, I hope more than anything else that we'll speak about its sweetness.

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