This morning the world behind the window went monochrome, the clouds gathering dark in the corners then blowing to fill the sky. Cat came in from sketching and the rain started; heavy, blurring, hailstones whipping the glass. The dark clouds were gone, only grey in their place. The mountains were swallowed by mist, the estuary sandbanks hidden. All we could see was a shifting grey white, wrapping around, ruffling the water, stinging the panes. Even the sky had gone. We listened to the staccato from the wooden window sills. Then the mountains came back, the rain hurried off, leaving only a smear of cloud and scattered puddles. I went for a walk, up behind the houses, through the woods. The oak leaves twisted and turned as they stretched for the sky, which deepened to peach, a first flush of pink before night. I crunched over wet oak leaves and acorns already soaked and split. I came to a rocky outcrop, looked down to exposed sand below, the old brown skeleton of Barmouth bridge graceful across the rising tide. I hurried back, found Cat waiting inside a pillar box, changed into swimming things. We ran to the water in the half dark, wondering if we were mad. We waded into liquid grey as pewter, the jagged rocks outlined against a yellowing sky. The water, though cold, was warmer than the air. The clouds gathered back on the beach. The wind pushed black waves into our eyes, the sky dropped darker, the water bit. On the horizon, rise flares lit the sky above Barmouth, where evening lights twinkled on. Back on the shore the oak trees were backed by deepening cloud, surrounded by dusk, holding us, a perfect charcoal drawing of a moody night scene.
Bonnie Radcliffe 