Earlier this year, after days of rain, the water meadows near our house were flooded - I'd sat in our conservatory, like a jaundiced tea planter - fat rain drops coursed down the windows - I reached for a short story by Somerset Maugham -
I wondered what it would be like if it didn't stop raining - I imagined the Purbeck Hills becoming narrow, glistening, islands - the tops of trees would protrude above the waters - the church tower of Saint Mary the Virgin would become a lighthouse, guiding men in coracles - clamours of rooks would circle the chimney tops of drowned cottages -
One evening, it stopped raining - I went across the level crossing, to look at the water meadows - the sun was setting, sinking behind dark woods - rays of light still shone upwards, as though from an immense searchlight -
Flood water was sweeping over the lane - the water felt cold against my wellington boots - I'd bought the boots in Ponds, that cave of magic ironmongery -
Each side of the submerged tarmac were gleaming, turbulent, lagoons - I could see small choppy waves, each one highlighted by the last rays of light - there was a wonderful strangeness in the air -
I thought of the Isle of Glass - perhaps, soon, I'd see a slender barge, poled over the glowing water - I'd hear my name, whispered in the gathering darkness -
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