A Look Through Spattered Windows. By CpSingleton © 2015
We look through the windscreen, greasy and spattered with undrinkable rain, not really surprised that it isn’t sunny.
The weatherfolk, a step away from astrologers, all toothy smiles, told us the sun would beat down on our brows. A heatwave they said. Michael Fish waved in the background urging no definite statements: Seven Oaks, now one, his broken legacy.
So we drive on, water scything up the side like Pegasus’ wings.
Warm tributes pour from the radio for the late Charles Kennedy. The last of the human politicians.
Life really is too short to worry over a little rain.