Soft shaped clouds of grey wipe slowly across the sky and enter into my day. Like a winter mist that weaves across a desolate moor they strengthen and soon obscure the sun from sight. Then perhaps in empathy with the world’s pain, the cloud’s sigh in unison and let fall tears that rush to earth in increasing numbers. Sat reading here in the garden, the newspaper’s inky words of melancholia that describe current world events blur, then sift, distort and form again and I begin to read a new story. It writes instead of the power of creation held in just a single drop of water. I now see on the paper faces written in the stars surrounded by trees and flowers and it tells me I shall dare to hope again for a little while. I feel the cool drops on my skin and some hit my mouth. Then I gaze upward and taste the poisonous world on my lips. It is bitter now but it will come to sweetness once more as it washes away hate in a torrent of change that shall set a new day.