There have been storms, there have been floods. Here the garden and air are wet but elsewhere in Britain the ground is underwater and gasping for reprieve. I can see the culprits sailing by, dark clouds pouring from the west, now relieved of their rainfall so giving us a miss. The air is aswirl with them like smoke separating and surging below the pale grey sky, hurrying east as if running a race. The leaves tremble and are caught in the wind that urges them on, wanting to go with them.