After the wind
Two days, 48 hours, 2880 minutes and a few more besides. When the stubborn south wind sets in to buffet the house, every nerve-jarring second counts. There is nothing elegant about this wind, nothing that suggests the least remorse for its incessant battering-ram assault, stripping leaves, shattering branches, hammering doors, pummelling windows and flinging against the glass bemused drops of rain that really would much rather be elsewhere. That’s how it is and how it will always be when the yellow sand-laden south wind wheedles its way over the pass, slips into the valley and takes residence there. Opposition is useless. Better just to sit and count the raindrops on the window pane, praying to whatever gods you believe in that the roof tiles will cling on at least this one time more. And they have. And now the sun has come back, as you knew it would, sooner or later. A little tremulous and uncertain of what to tell of all it has seen from high up there where the clouds fear to go. Because the clouds, as everyone knows, are afraid of heights.