Rain, heavy rain, falls from the darkening sky. Dull and cold grey is the colour of the morning, not even the slightest hint that brightness could exist in this space. Looking down into the valley below, the greens of nature are suffocated by the greyness of the wild water falling from above, the houses and buildings submerged by its density, while the raw sounds of the forests’ children are muted by the volume of the skies liquid.
I watch the beauty of the different shades of grey clouds in the sky change, move and merge, as if they dance between themselves, communicating with their tones and playful movements, signalling poetically between each other, tales vivid and wild of the moments they can hear and see of the creatures far below them, stories deaf to the human ear but loud and tall to these raucous clouds.
There is a deep calm from the rain in the mountains, a sense of rest, a barrier to the world outside, that keeps me inside where all I can do is stop and be, and wait, hopefully, for a break in the deluge to breathe in the drifting freshness from the quenching outside. I can only succumb to the clock of nature, and look out across the vista, safely guarded by a roof and some walls, and stare out in wonder and gratitude at the magnificent brilliance of the creations that arise on Mother Earth.
Serra da Lousã, Portugal // 05”05”17