by Wendy Greenhalgh
We have been sitting watching it now for eight hours, that thin sliver of sky. Grandfather has wrapped himself in old sacks, the dry, dusty hessian sends out little puffs of chaff every time a raindrop hits it, his hat is pulled down low over his face, and his eyes are shut in meditation. Above us the clouds are storm purple and the sky is swollen. The slates of the roofs glisten slick in the downpour Read more …
