Watching The Skies - Part 2 - The Tears of St Lawrence
Barefoot in the cool August grass, my nightshirt brushing softly across the tops of my knees, I stand beneath the waxing moon, waiting for the annual Perseids display. The hands on the clock have passed the witching hour. The day is in its infancy but, other than a few ghostly grey patches where wispy clouds sit, the sky is black. Nothing happens. My neck stiffens as I crane to peer into the darkness, so I make my way to the garden swing, sit down, and recline against the metal frame. Staring at the sky, I am sure that I see flickering flashes of light behind the clouds above my head - is that the meteor shower, or just my imagination? I can’t be sure. The swing creaks as I shift, metal digging into my shoulder blades. I stand, cross to the centre of the lawn and flop down. I lie on my back, arms spread wide like I am making a snow angel. A small laugh slips out, as I imagine my neighbour looking out of the window, the glow of their room behind them, and me, the madwoman in nightclothe...