Rain

Flying at thirty-six thousand feet over the snow fields of Manitoba Jo Shapcott’s words trickle off the page, a fragment from ‘Somewhat Unravelled’ a poem about her auntie.

‘Then she says don’t you  ever want to go to market and get lost                                                                                           in pots, fruit and random fabric? Don’t you  want to experiment with rain, hide out in storms,                                     cover your body in a layer one raindrop thick?’

And I remembered our random experiment with rain. Rosie and ninety-nine year old Clara processing across the balconies of the Festival Hall in a light summer drizzle, and the utter joy in that moment, that surprise reunion with the weather.

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