To watch her play

The summer storm rips open the heat of the day giving desperate relief to the rain starved plants. A morning of dusty hot oppression washed away in the cool darkness of black clouds, bursting and spilling on us the weight of their being.

A winter storm, even in the morning, brings early the night. But a summer storm brings a new fresh colour to the world. Pavements are washed clean of abandoned rubbish and nature stands tall reaching towards her mother. Tall and proud, glowing a brilliant green, thirsty no more.

My already illuminated garden fills brighter yet with one of nature’s own children. As the world ducks for cover under awnings and umbrellas, wrapping themselves in protective plastic, my Grace, my beautiful Grace, sheds her artificial skin and wearing only mother nature’s breath, steps out into the world and raises her hands to the rain.

Leaping high into the air and landing in puddles, larger than life, she forces the gathered raindrops back into the sky. Rain soaked and happy she twirls and skips, splashes and laughs.

One by one her worldly treasures are removed from the cosiness of their housebound box, to be scattered amongst her soggy world. A red chair, an orange brush, blue basket, yellow teddy, pink spoon and a purple frog.

I watch her play. Filling our yard with her rainbow, set beautifully against the green of summer rain. Her soft pale skin moving through the colour with ease, she’s oblivious to my closeness.

Without a glance my way, I hear her gently cry ‘Watch me play Mummy?’ As though it were possible my eyes could rest on anything other than her.

Journal Comments

  • Whirligig
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  • Old World Sparrow
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