LAST MONDAY
Unpredicted, the deluge came, rain like hailstones, fast and ferocious. We drove towards home, thunder on the roof, across the fields, back from visiting a farm park where lightning streaked the sky. We turn into our lane, road awash, brown muddy water, flowing into houses, garages filling with sticky residue, a line of sandbags breached, a steady stream flowing down our lane, increasing the flooding. The following day we walk past, all are emptied, piles of possessions stacked up on dry ground ready for the cleanup, sweeping garages free, dank runoff, clearing drains from dug up fields, their rain absorbent surfaces broken into building site mud bath for ever more concrete and luxury homes. On the radio we heard of Germans, who lost their lives, caught unawares when this rain-storm left our shores, sped across Europe, the wrath of Gaia unleashed where least anticipated. ‘We had not expected such power such ferocity, such volume. This is not usual in summer!’ But summer is no longer a defined season to anticipate of happy days and outdoor dining. Family vacations, all safe and sound. Instead, a quick dash from car to our house, on higher ground.
Sylvia Clare is a memoirist and poet whose themes are based on the natural world, mindfulness and human relationships and emotions. She lives with her husband in a small village on a small island and writes as a passion, almost as much of a passion as her gardening and beekeeping. She also spends time swimming on the local beaches all year round and is determined not to lose her marbles as she gets older. The idea of not being active and creative is her only real fear in life. Life is her inspiration, her own and those of other people. Nowadays she has chosen to mostly self-publish so she can present her writing on her own terms. Poetry reading is my favourite activity first thing in the morning, shared with her husband and over that first wonderful mug of tea. She is always on the look-out for new poets.
Flight of the dragonfly 