The world is shaken with storm, white with storm. I have had toast and tea, which seems to me a kind of living poetry, and am only waiting now for the fall of the old dark, unkempt and starless tonight, wild with sea and ancient stone magic.
I think sometimes the world is very lovely with its flowers and soft green trees, sunsets and breezes - and then a storm comes and I remember the more hectic beauty of fierce weather, the grin instead of the gentle smile. It's nice to sit peacefully on daisy-lit grass beneath an oak tree. But its utterly transformative to be amongst the roots of low black mountains as a storm shakes all the serenity out of you so that your bones are as stark at the white sky and your breath a tempest.
Every January in my little country, people go on holiday. Camping, staying at the bach, tramping through the forests. And every year there is a dangerous storm. People come home bedraggled, flooded-out, cold. And they say, who would have thought? Every single year. I guess they were hopeful. Or else determined to ignore nature and do what they want. I myself am hopeful in another way. I hold on through the humid days for these great summer storms. I have no myth to tell you about them, they are more than that - they are a simple promise. Every January, every Easter, wild weather. The oldest god of all.