We fools of weather

When the earth is baked and the air burns and light becomes the foe how sorely do our thoughts, our very deepest wishes turn to rain.

For weeks a change has been forecast that might weaken the grip of this African high. Cold valiant air from the distant pole come to rescue Europe from the Saharan grip.

And so I’ve scanned the skies, smelt what little breeze that here does go for wind, tested the burning sun on skin and reached for tools as soon the fire backs by some degree..

Today they promised, PROMISED, rain. Even if they could but spare a drop.

I watered my little oasis garden from the dwindling wadi, held cool in blue plastic beneath the shading terrace. Devil may care for rain is on the way. Will come and in ten minutes make my trudging with cans and hose seem some mere pantomime of weather.

And finally it did arrive. At first mere precious drops consumed by terracotta parched beyond belief. And then a growing wave of sweet perfume - the earth’s joy unleashed.

Water puddled on cracked soil, reflected the roiling sky invading from the east. Wetted the horse’s head and hanging shoes that have stood here patient since we bought this place.

Not for long the promise fell. But gushed briefly into my holding pot, my dam for one more tomorrow.

The delicious cool enticing me out to strim and fight back nature’s sprawling hand. Briefly strong again. Land-proud. Order beckoning beyond the milky fog of heat and numbed passivity.

Heal hearts and congested lungs. Soothe sweats. Quench thirsts. The strong dry African sun. The longeurs and song of Atlantic air.