The storm blustered from the south last night, a hard balmy storm that made the windchimes ring, waves of wind buffeting the houses and trees, making the lights flicker so I lit candles in each room. We could hear the gusts howl and moan over the rooftops and whistle in the branches and this morning saw the detritus on the ground.

At three in the morning the devil took his chariot for a ride, rumbled across the dark sky in a fast charge, and then unleashed the rain which came pounding in great sheets on the roof, rapping against the southern windows.

The storm blew itself out with the rising sun, streaking the wet clouds pink and orange, the light rosy through the fading cat-whiskery rain. The sun shines now, making shadows with the trees, a bright break in the grey clouds.

The river rolls high.