Rain, slow, soft rain. Mist obscuring the valley, the ridge of Pen y Cloddiau vanished into solid grey. Dense grey cloud behind the oak tree. No sky, no view, no climbing hills. A small enclosed world of rain and grey.
A blackbird sings from the roof of the bakehouse. A bullfinch sits in the hawthorn hedge, its breast a startling rose pink flash against the green. I walk out into the meadow. Fine soft heads of grasses bowed down with the rain brush my legs. Roses drip petals and raindrops. Foxgloves stand tall. In the meadow poppies bend their brilliant heads under the weight of water.
The scent of honeysuckle rises up by the hedge and drowns me. Just for a moment, I let go of the wish for sun and summer and lie back in the water, into a dream of grey and green.