There is nothing quite as special as evening rain especially after a long dry day when finally the light fall of moisture appears to be perfectly measured like the gradual sifting of sugar into egg white, nothing jars and all will be well until the desired effect is achieved.
The meandering laneway not far from here droops with new growth and I stop momentarily to drink in the scene, to admire the bounty of hawthorn blossom and blue bells that cascade along the narrow green tuft of grass, the furrow that carries my glad eye to a lone cottage that I would gladly call my own. Life appears glorious for that moment, that moment of wishing of possibilities that can never be grasped.
Dinner conversation turns to basketball and I retreat into a world of a court full of daisies and light-footed dancers wearing pink tutus, scented of orange blossom and elusive but magical wafts of gorse flower, light as Panacotta, a soufflé of sorts.
Life with men can be challenging at the best of times, my femininity compromised so I head upstairs to the cold cream that soothes my woes. I whip it into a mask, spread it onto my face until I coat my skin with hawthorn blossom and cleanse the day. Below in the bowels of this house I hear the male voices, they dominate over a ball, a ball that glides effortlessly into a net and it seems to me that it surely must fall as easily as the Spring blossom falls, like a light coating of snow that drifts into a soft breeze and settles for a time.