There are little things as disappointing as a storm aborted. Especially if you have already lived through the birth-pains, where every blink of the eye is so pregnant it leaves your cheek sopping wet. Where the air is so think, you drink it through your lungs, and even breathing becomes lethargic. You wait in anticipation. You smell the rain and you feel the relief of the storm even before it is due. You know you will not be able to stand it much longer. As in the day of Noah, there is no sky and clouds, only one solid wall of water a somehow dark blue colour. Thunder roars, and dusk comes early. Clock-off time is called premature, and nervous workers hurry home. Windows are closed to stifling interiors, and breaths are taken in.

Yes the world is in labour.

But only to produce a splattering. A drop or two before an eerie reversal of dusk to day, and wall to earth and sky. You have to wait yet a little while longer.