Water colours

(Dramatic narrative)

From the rim of the Earth came the Western gale, like some leviathan, thrashing the ocean into milk-white fury, driving the spindrift into vortices and wailing with the passion of a sitar as it wound the spume into whirling dervishes who gyrated in transcendental ecstasy on the dancefloor of the sea. Giant waves, driven relentlessly shoreward by the power of the storm, hurled themselves at the  boulders, smashing on up into the sky and drumming like thunder in harmony with the sitar-wind , making music for the spinning dancers.

So full was the air of driven spray that it was not possible to tell where the ocean ended and where the sky began. The wind, wild from the West and keening like a banshee, refused to recognise that the land was not part of the aquatic domain. it whipped up icy water from the ocean and drove a blanket of spray, like horizontal rain, thick and fast over the beach and across the coastal highway.

Pandemonium ruled, and on the road inside my tiny car, the maelstrom felt like the apocalypse. Charybdis unleashed was sucking down the world, and seemed intent on pulling me in. My knuckles white on the wheel, I locked horns with the warrior wind, fully focussed, just on survival. My Honda was tossed and sometimes lifted as if it was just another puff of foam.

And then, the magic happened. A white shaft of sunlight lanced the cloud behind me and fell upon the driving spray, transforming it into a wonderfall of tiny separate rainbows. Flashing in and out of existence, fine filaments of chrominance twisted and swirled beyond my windscreen like a myriad of bright tropical fish, filling my mind with wonder. From my front row seat, I was thrilled by the greatest natural light show on earth.  A magnificent moving painting, swept onto the watery canvas by the master-brush of the universe itself.

Rainbows are nature’s way of smiling, I thought to myself, and each rainbow is unique to only the one who sees it. A personal message of hope, so private, it is impossible to share.


neal      2018