Susan Pryke Writing and Communiciation Management

The branch broke before the rain. It lay wounded on the pavement: a premonition of the pummelling to come. Then the rain came down like Niagara, the water bursting from the gutters and drainpipes.

We, in our bed, lay restless while the drumming continued, feeling the solid house become fragile until finally we got up to discover ourselves in one piece and the freshly laid topsoil washed to the bottom of the garden. Then the long-day-of-being-inside: prisoners of the ceaseless rain, its dampness in the pores of our clothes.

In the afternoon a reprieve: a drive to view the impact of the big wet, the alien phenomenon, the introduction to rain with a Capital R in my new country. The creek to Nangudga Lake is alive and gushing. The lake has risen, like a phoenix. The dams brim with turbid water. The relief is palpable, curving up the corners of mouths . Good news for the cattle.

The swollen inlet is muddy with runoff.

Two days later gum nuts and twigs still wash upon the shore but the water is clearing. Cobalt blue, like my Muskoka lakes. A curiosity. Back on land, green shoots push from the branches, growing improbable centimetres each day. A failing hibiscus decides to live. As a gift, its crimson flower trumpets a new day.