I love this -evenings that remind me of storms past, seen years before from the top of the hill.
Tonight reminds me. I’m in a different place watching, but it feels the same.
I’m standing in the dark garden, meeting the edge of the storm, after a scorching hot day. Still slow and forming, gentle, I still hide under the porch, with a cup of tea in hand.
The warm night is scented with native frangipani flowers that reaches me on the breeze that bustles the dry leaves over stones and brick. They sometimes have a spooky rhythm sounding like legged creatures approaching. I don’t let my imagination quicken my heartbeat.
Thunder is only lazily grumbling as if the sky has just woken up. Half-hearted flickers of lightning like a wet match trying to catch. The first heavy slow drops of rain dolloping themselves on dry leaves like a half-asleep child fingerpainting. A spot over here…and a spot over there…
It’s like the whole storm just can’t really be bothered to pull itself together and crack on with it. But it will.