Winter’s torrential take on summer; the aftermath of a storm in July. We stepped gingerly in puddles, soaking the canvas skin of our trainers and holding onto the thickest tree branches we could find. They wavered slightly in the barely-there movements of a breeze, throwing up a warm, earthy scent which cooled our brows but made us sweat.
From across the way I heard Tom call out my name. “Rachel, come here!”
I watched him motion with one hand, then stop and look down. He made a face as he lifted his foot free from the mud. It rose upwards, looming and gloomy but with the delicious pace of Summer and its accompanying flash of red. I laughed with delight, feeling a reckless, tumbling sensation of thankfulness.
I picked my way over to him, edging close to the trees to avoid the worst of the mud. My own shoes were already wrecked, their yellow hue now a sullen grey colour that recalled the exact texture and shape of a sadness that has been wrung out and left mute in the cold light of day.