December 31

Tall clouds over high, flat Wiltshire like parts of a floating castle. Something magical is happening this late, lazy December. Under the white battlements grins the brightest rainbow I have ever seen: a perfect bow, all seven colours clear. In our car we give slow chase for miles then, suddenly, the colourful ends stab into the fields either side of the road: gold in the hard brown earth

What did the ancients of Stonehenge think when they saw such colour? The upside down smile of God?

And then a double blessing begins: a second rainbow blossoming. This one is subtle, blurred, appearing from the first like a seven-striped smile. The clouds part a little. A winter sun takes its slim chance and stares down, lighting up the hurried patches of rain. The second rainbow grows more confident. Now it’s in the fields as well. We approach both, always approaching and nearing but never reaching, never driving under it.

Both begin to move as the rain clouds move, and the sun shifts; they shimmer and fade. It is sad to see such great beasts decline. A quick death in the end. They shrink back to their stumps in the fields; bright spears opening the cold soil; they cling to earth, to cloud, to water drop; to death and are gone.