The Rainstorm


Like a drowned rat my mum always used to say. I couldn’t have described it better myself. Cold, wet and tired, I splashed home through slick city streets with no other wish but to get out of the rain. Any meagre shelters, shop fronts and the like, were taken and all were unwilling to share. All but one, anyway.
Her wings unfolded upwards into a large, conical canopy, a very definite shape against the liquid onslaught. She offered an umbrella for two, that’s all, a sanctuary from heaven’s tears. For a while, I couldn’t have asked for more. For a while.