The grey rain clouds aren't racing anywhere. After a night of dumping their loads of desperately wanted water, they've decided to hang around for a bit, as if our gratitude were an insufficient worship. They tease us with promises of more to come. Fluffy white clouds try to herd them away, but unconvincingly as they mingle, tear shreds off each other and merge. White plus grey do not make white.
The thunderstorm yesterday evening was short and crisp. Only a few rolls of thunder registered, but the rain on their tails lingered. The sound of heavy raindrops pelted the concrete and roofs in my neighbourhood rang out. It were truly welcomed, if a bit surprising after the sweltering day we'd had. By the mid afternoon it had reached 35˚C! While the strong wind brought some cool relief, after a while the stinging dust made me wish it were just hot, not hot and windy. I wasn't so sure when I read that it had got to 37.4˚C, the hottest temperature for this late in March for 60 years.
When the first slow heavy drops were replaced by the thrum of continuing rain, we lifted our heads in praise – especially of the cool change. Soon, everything was drenched the way that it hadn't been for so long.
This morning the concrete in our back courtyard was still wet and leaves were hanging heavy with raindrops. The light was crisp and bright. By early afternoon though, the promise of more blue winning through the muted grey was dashed by another shower, driven by howling winds to drench our kitchen window sill. The radio that lives on there is now a hazard.
Only now, the sun's rays are breaking through the wind tattered clouds, making everything shine with promise. If it doesn't rain, it will be perfect for kite flying tomorrow.