On the longest day, rain clouds bounce across the sky. I fling myself on my bicycle, head for the bruised purple.
It’s been hot for a week, last night I tossed the duvet off, rubbed my back and flat belly. Blood again. They say if you’re caught in a rain-storm on the Solstice you’ll have a year’s good fortune. Three months to find a lover. Nine to cook a baby. My pedals spin.
Out of the city in the early dawn, swallows chitter as I race under the clouds, but they blow off course and I’m riding under a snatch of blue. I admire wild fescue, a wheat field decorated with a blush of poppies. Farmers say flowers in the wrong place are weeds, so I must pedal on to find my special place.
I rest by a meadow bordered by blackthorn and ash. One glorious oak holds its broccoli head up; fresh leaves on gnarled branches.
A horse trots over, accepts my sweet apple with whisker lips, breathes on my hand like a kiss. The rain clouds come, full-bellied, gathering steam in a skirt. I run into the heart of the field, startling a hare, he leaps so fast, I might have magicked him.
The air shimmers, a swallow dives low for insects then rain comes thick and fast, huge pelts splatter my shoulders. The horse whinnies. I will find my love. Water trampolines off me. I scarecrow my arms, point my face to the skies, am met with a whip-crack, a rumble, a growl.
Silver bolts fracture the sky.
Zeus, Jupiter, Taranis.
The sky shakes, I could run for the oak, but what do they say about thunder and trees?
I stand in the deep mulch. Slowly, I am composting. The only thing to do is to embrace it and wait.
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