There is nothing better than hearing distant thunder in the wee small hours. As one snuggles up in bed, listening to the rumbling and crashing, rain slashing against the window, one is generally happy with the world. The sound is both comforting and eerie.
As I look out of my bedroom window at the impending storm I expect to see lightening striking behind rolling lonely moorland hills, the forking lights reflecting in a fresh water lake. Or maybe I will see lightening far out to sea, illuminating rugged craggy Cornish cliffs and making ghostly ship wrecks visible on the dark, wave crashing rocks.
What I do see is lightening reflected off the windscreens of speeding police cars, on shattered blood stained beer bottles, in puddles of yellow sick and in the septic pond created by the leaking sewer pipe in Curry’s car park.
One must strive to seek beauty in everything.
2 Comments
One thinks one is ever the romantic, Nelson, one are.
I know one’s forking thunder is travelling northwards so one shall leave an ear out for it before evensong.
Toodle.
You go and leave an ear out lad. It’ll do you good.