The Troubled Sky

Out of the bosom of the Air,

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the troubled countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

The recent downpour caught us by surprise. It's not uncommon for us to weather storms, however it is uncommon (in my limited experience) for those storms to linger. Five-minute cloudbursts are typically expected at this time of year... but perhaps a change is in the air.

To be awakened to the sweet sound of plump rain droplets hitting the roof transported me back to years long gone- blanketed by fond childhood memories. Mornings of being roused from slumber by the pitter-patter-pitter-patter of rain falling from darkened skies.





Encased in our warmest blanket with my little happily seeking warmth in his Mummy's embrace, accompanied by a steaming hot chocolate, there always lingers a sadness... the mourning for sunlit skies, soft dry grass and exciting possibilities for daytime strolls. This sadness is quickly forgotten as rainy-day games are started and makeshift 'caves' are found in the unlikeliest of places.