Grey-black, teeming down with rain, the sky is made up of lines dragging the clouds toward the earth, the summer sun hidden away for now and I see her, a broad smile and twinkling eyes surrounded by hair matted to her face, as black as the bird, her voice as pretty to my ears as birdsong when the rain has cleared. Or even as the sound of rain on leaves beforehand. I move the hair away from your face, kiss your cheeks, your lips, ask you where your umbrella is. As the rain eases you ask if it matters and suggest a walk before dinner.
The darkness of this late afternoon soon gives way to sun as we enter the park to walk its abandoned and sodden paths alone. The birds are returning from their places of shelter filling the air with their voices again, hopping about the grass and taking advantage of the absence of the people they would normally be fighting with for space this time of year.
We see a blackbird on a fence watching us. He follows as if in vigilance, watching over its colleague in colour and her hand holder. He suddenly flies and hops in front of us as if seeking to relay information to us. Then he gives up on this and stops, looks at us and cries out in alarm. A thunderstorm breaks open the heavens and we run back to Soho and a warm restaurant, all sheepish grins and wringing wet.
The darkness of this late afternoon soon gives way to sun as we enter the park to walk its abandoned and sodden paths alone. The birds are returning from their places of shelter filling the air with their voices again, hopping about the grass and taking advantage of the absence of the people they would normally be fighting with for space this time of year.
We see a blackbird on a fence watching us. He follows as if in vigilance, watching over its colleague in colour and her hand holder. He suddenly flies and hops in front of us as if seeking to relay information to us. Then he gives up on this and stops, looks at us and cries out in alarm. A thunderstorm breaks open the heavens and we run back to Soho and a warm restaurant, all sheepish grins and wringing wet.
Note: Chomreedhoo is, I think, old Manx-Gaelic for Coat of black. The word appears in the song Armistice by Patrick Wolf, which is where I came across it - or, rather, more likely, initially, in the NME while talking about it. Not sure if I wrote this and the second Chomreedhoo (Coat of black) before or after hearing the song itself.
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