The wood-ash of previous Sundays was damp under the bath and the fire took time to catch.
An elm and an apple twig reached across.
On the hill, the wind stirred the oaks and moved them like currents disturbing rock-weed in a pool. Larch fronds were graceful as tentacles, they waved and flowed and danced.
Eastnet, Lundy, Irish Sea
Showers good
Perhaps severe gale 9 later
After the shipping forecast the water was ready.
Squalls of rain spattered across the dark garden as we hurried across it.
The branches bowed, the wind soughed.
The bath was hot. Rain fell onto our heads and made our hair cold to touch. But we sunk and slunk deep into the water. Prickles of rain fell onto our lolling arms like little pins and needles.
Sometimes a larger drop fell onto a belly or cheek and we’d notice the whole of it, the whole of the drop, a cold dissolving pool, on hot wet skin.
The fire beneath the bath tossed orange light and ghost smoke into the night.
The stream rushed and spoke to the trees.
After the bath we strolled back naked across the garden, with wet plants brushing at our skin.
The Yellow Caravan 
Magical Julie.
[…] worse too, the wind rising, temperature dropping. I read a very atmospheric little piece over at The Yellow Caravan the other day. You wouldn’t get up to that sort of thing in these parts, Julie. Oh it […]