Sheltering

Rain loves confluence, its great grey thumb smudging the landscape, washing colours out of the hills to darken the rising rivers (and the park's wee artificial lake coursing furiously into its narrow concrete channel in a steady rill), herding people, sheltering from the downpour, under the dripping canopies, planting a few extra trunks with momentary roots.

Out running earlier, I'd been caught and paused under another tree while the pulse passed, turning the pavements to white noise; or rather it didn't quite pass, so I stayed running on the spot, already half soaked while I waited for the strength of the rainstorm to weaken, then eventually thought: bother it, what does it matter? As I emerged there was a single farewell rumble of heavenly furniture: the outer swirls of 'Bertha', rippling elsewhere.