On reflection, maybe it is too cold to venture out into the early morning light of a September morning in the north of England wearing nothing but t-shirt to cover my upper body. My rakhi will probably not protect me from the cold.
And the drips from above, dropping onto my goose-pimpled arms, are probably drops of rain; harbingers of the coming storm, rather than tears from the trees arching above me, whose wooden hearts will never ache for summer’s return.
And those apples may seem firm and juicy from this distance; ripe for my eyes, my hands, my teeth and my mind to to gather in. And they may fall to the grass. They may get bruised. They may lie there, untaken. They may never feel the touch of man. They may rot and dissolve into the ground, unloved.
The rain has come. The storm has broken. The trees surrender, in their naked majesty, to the sky. The apples are lying hidden in the long grass. Nature succumbs to itself. And this t-shirt is going to get really wet.
And just like that; as I accept it all; the rain stops. 🌈