Huge gusts wrestling branches, leaves ripped. Bumble bees hide out the storm in the thick of the bay tree. As the pressure drops, water overflows the moors. Puddles become pools, then small lakes as the drains bulge. The sound of a twig caught in the wheel is a large bolt for holding corrugated iron, and shreds the tyre. Then it’s over. The first sight of the new moon: in the back garden I take photos handheld through lovage and bay, later in my studio upstairs through the open window across to the horse chestnut trees in Beaumont Park.

I write like
James Joyce

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