The dark and bulbous cloud bank rolled toward the wood like a series of breaking waves. The gunmetal texture in high contrast to the fields of ripe, yellow rape. Above the brimstone crop, swallows and swifts flew sorties amongst the storm flies and aphids trapped in the pressure front of the moist tsunami. The deep, guttural roll of distant thunder drummed behind the cumuli. Rooks and jackdaws appeared, flying low over the blossom of the hawthorn hedges. Flocks of plundering pigeons fled the rape and drove toward the wood for cover. A fox trotted briskly into the covert to seek shelter. Black over white. Grey from yellow. Red into green. The mistle thrush, high in a beech heralding the incoming fury, now ceased its song. The blackbird and robin, choristers to the rain dance, fell silent too. A searing flash of light zig-zagged across the near-black canvas of the turbulent sky. Within seconds the awesome thrash of Odin’s drum erupted, the earth vibrating to his music. Then silence. For just seconds. Then the almost electrical crackle of the approaching curtain of torrential rain. I pull up my hood and huddle beneath the beech canopy as the storm closes around me. The relentless sweep of the cascade flattens swathes of rape and jettisons soil and stone in a series of ricochets. The sky is invisible now behind this blur of falling water but the flashes of light prevail and the muted sound of thunder barely outranks the racket of the rain. For fifteen minutes the deluge batters the wood and then, as suddenly as it started, it is over. I stay to enjoy the aftermath of the storm and watch the wood and field awaken. Behind the gentle percussion of the dripping leaf canopy, the little robin is the first to sing the ‘all-clear’. A melody full of rejoicing and relief. Other birdsong opens up and they have reason to sing. All around me the air starts to vibrate gently as the hum and buzz begins. The sunbeams falling through the wet canopy are shrouded in the prism of rainbow colours and start to fill with a whirling ballet of insect life, woken by the rain. The wren and the blackcap will feast well this evening. Above me in the canopy, a hidden canon of pigeon murmur begins. Out along the woods margin, the rabbit kits appear, lapping at the dripping rye grass. The stench of sodden mustard-rape is overtaken by the scent of wild garlic. The sky is clearing now and the evening will be calm and fruitful. I look South and can still see the distant flash of lightning as the grey swirl hovers above the City. No-one there will enjoy what I just witnessed, huddled in their offices, shops and homes. Me? I love to sit below the fury of a summer storm.
Copyright Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, June 2015