Hiraeth

'It's rained for eleven weeks.'
We're recounting stories of our favourite bushes to shelter under. Bemoaning umbrellas-and grave yards. We're walled in.
A gulf of black has captured the sky above Town Hill, and won't give it back.
Like sheep we've started to limp.
The windows are steaming.
'It's dark-and it's dark walking home.'
We're all trying to make you laugh, but no-one laughs so much as you, when you quote poetry in a bath- locks a- flowing or explain to us why your favourite word is trousers.
And now all our learnings are tinged with laughing at the rain while we walk in the darkness homeward.
It makes me wish I knew then what I know now...but your generous spirit allows seedlings to grow.