At twilight tonight the sky was an unbroken mess of
multitudinous greys, ranging from light smoke to dark gun metal. Some of the
clouds were rushing northwards, while others – presumably at different
altitudes – were heading west. There was a sudden, arresting flash followed
almost immediately by a cacophony of banging fit to have its origin in the
forges of hell. The cold, cutting wind rose spitefully and suddenly, scattering
the garden with fresh new leaves torn prematurely from their hosts. And then I
heard the knocking on my coat hood when the hail started. It was a fitting
finale to a capricious day in which the sun and cloud vied for supremacy, the
cold wind rose and fell with maddening indecision, and the clouds unloaded
their cargo in the form of sleet.
This is not fit weather for the middle of merry old May in merry middle England. This had the feel of the rent temple curtain, or the omens on the night of King Duncan’s murder. And so one has to wonder whether this is a minor and temporary tear in the fabric of normality or an early sign of the promised environmental apocalypse. I don’t suppose we can know for some time yet, but if I were young I think I might be a little fearful of the future.
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