Pembrokeshire - not the best place to be for the wettest August since records began. Yes, I am pre-empting the official announcement,
but the sodden site
and drying clothes provide sufficient evidence for me.
Low clouds spill
over the craggy faces of the hills, so that it is hard to tell where cloud ends and rain begins.
Ironically it can be drier
where the land meets the sea,
despite the best efforts of the waves
to add their spray to the pervading dampness,
while the tide rises and falls,
according to the choreography of the moon. All mankind can do
is build structures and banks
in an attempt to contain
and tame the sea.
On the roof, raindrops,
as welcome as a shark among surfers,
announce the arrival of the next band of rain.
Inside cottages, and homes, caravans and tents, holiday makers and residents alike wonder how much more rain it will take before Pembrokeshire dissolves.
Then the sun bursts through,
and every droplet gleams
as if encrusted with diamonds,
the sky's glorious glow
is reflected in every puddle and stream, while the waves roll nearer and nearer
until they break upon rock or shore. Everyone smiles
and forgives the fickle weather,
until those raindrops begin once more.
We remember the many saints of this land and wonder if they also prayed for the rain to end, and while they waited the rain washed away all that made them unclean.