On the way home from Olivia's charming and lifting little song recital, I stopped at the traffic lights opposite a mossy wall, and ivy covered trees. And the soft rain that had been falling strengthened and started to spill down, tip down, thrum down, noisy on the car roof, bouncing off the pavements.
The air looked so clear it felt as if I could see the drops slipping from one ivy leaf to the next, helter skeleter down the trees. If you were to stand naked, with your toes dug into the leaf mould, and lift your arms and face to the drops that plummet weighted from the leaves, it would feel warm and clean, cleansing on your upturned face, your waiting tender skin.
