Lightstorm

There is a lightstorm outside -- cracking thunder, lightning that illuminates the whole bay -- and I have wet feet and pyjamas from running about in it at three in the morning, pulling in wetsuits, lifejackets, water skiis to dry cover. Seven is our morning departure time and two days of sunny blue weather have lulled us into the sense that it would never rain again: packed suitcases sit out on the deck waiting to be taken to the car, carpets I've been beating before we close the house for the summer. The bicycles have yet to be brought in but at least they are covered. And the little boat which has been dragged onto the lawn for the winter must be turned upside down.

The rain will make it easier to leave this place that romances us with melon-colored skies washing into the night, with wild raspberries so ripe they taste of candy and fat brown slugs who guard the grass paths each morning.