It is August. Aside from the calendar I know from the colour of grey that inhabits an August sky.

Also, the chill wind that senses where exactly it can get in to a house, and announces its arrival with a whistle-hiss.

That lying imposter, the unreliable sun that you want to believe will shine but never does when you need it.

That wind again, listen.

A body would think it is winter. And noone could blame you all the same.

It’s a melancholy month. Too many memorials, anniversaries. Though I have vivid recall of happy times.

Of a storm, thunder, and lightning striking, sitting in my granny’s living room in Omagh. Huge lumps of hail sousing the verandah splashing on the bounceback and rebound.

Now at the memory of that, and other August storms and tempests, it’s my time to well up.