Warm Rain

Mercy is like the rain.

This morning I got up at my usual time, dressed and out of the door in seconds, like a modern electric train I mused.  Margaret and Joanna, both have elegant, steam-powered engines, needing time for their boilers to be stoked.  I am now listening out for the rumble of boiling water.

I found the route down past the Loxley Works, a smart gated residence, and through the woods to the Loxley river.  By the river there were large masonry blocks, so vast that they reminded me of something that might have being uncovered in the valley of the Kings.  It might once have been the foundations of a power station, harnessing the force of the River Loxley to turn the wheels in the now upmarket residence.

As I wondered, I recalled my mother saying to Peter and me that we could play in the rain.  We were in Hong Kong, and the rain fell in large drops.  I remembered wondering what was so dangerous about rain, but this was warm rain and it wasn't going to harm anyone.  Apparently rain in England has to be respected.

We had a tense moment on Monday talking about trying not to cry in front of Elizabeth, because this made her cry, and then she started choking.  But you can't stop the rain.  Sometimes it doesn't kill you, even though it hurts.

I visited the local shop at Malinbridge.  I told the shopkeeper that I was his latest costumer, for a while.  We talked about the reason we had moved into Loxley.  He had had a friend on the same ward.  As an Iraqi Kurd, I guessed we both knew about tragedy, his on a greater scale.

I am "Dillar" he said.  "Hamdullah?"  I said.  "No, just Dillar."

"Praise be to God" for this morning, and all that will happen it in.