A percussion of rain beats its constant drum on a flat roof, an occasional crescendo gusts in the wind. The hollow kettle drum sounds as the hopper fills. A gentle melody of drips and trickles forming the tune beneath. Where is he, the Sorcerer's apprentice? Did he go and leave the taps running. Someone call the Master before we are all drowned. The cows are being washed down stream, the mice are drowned in their burrows and the high ground is no longer moral but overcrowded with creatures standing check by jowl, shivering, crowded together for warmth. The gutters bubble and gasp on the road like drowning men, spewing forth the water that they are forced to swallow. Rivulets run ever hopeful to the next grating only to find that there is no room at the Inn. The fields sit quietly by, filling up beneath their stubble of winter wear ready to suck the boots from unsuspecting feet. The grassland remains green but beneath the disguise of early growth lies a saturated sponge ready to ooze up under the weight of passers by, a ne puddle birthed for every step. The birds have all gone. They will not risk the penetrating cold of wet feathers and instead hunker down in the shelter of dense hedges, hold their beaks wrapped in the disguise of their wings, collars up, backs turned to the cold and damp.
And in to this I must go, because a dog is for life not just for Christmas.
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