Waking to rain

I wake to rain, the first we have had for weeks. The early morning light is pale and dull, falling like soft ash across the plaster walls of our bedroom, merging the old exposed paint layers into a pearlescent map, a mysterious, unexplored land of mists and grey seas.

The rain outside falls softly and steadily. A faint aroma of iron drifts through the thin, worn curtains, a metallic top note underlaid with the verdant aromas of parched vegetation drinking greedily, the wet fruitiness of dry earth swelling into a dark, moist cake.

Beyond the soft sound layer of muted splashing, there is faint, rhythmic clattering from the machinery of a mechanical farm beast working the fields, peppered with the piercing cries of small hedgerow birds. The silver lace of a blackbird’s song threads through, holding all together with a crescendo knot of joy.

Far distant, the bustling roar of a train rises and fades, disappearing to Beyond.