THE PLAYGROUND

The women there formed groups faster than their children did. Today they huddle together under a cracked plastic shelter. Rivers of water sheet down the sides and obscure their features. Rain coats in primary colours are distorted smudges, a shattered rainbow where the women hide.

The rain is relentless, driving sideways and flooding the grey tarmac. The clouds roll, purple edged and thick with the threat of snow. Saplings along the top of the field bend precariously, infant leaves drooping wetly.

Abandoned playground equipment is a curious mix of sodden wood and dull metal and fat beads of rain plop into the puddles in between.  The deluge down the slide skids into the divot at its end, dug there from the idle skid of polished shoes.

Those who don't fit under the shelter stay close to the wall, heads bowed and hoods pulled low. Their shoulders are hunched and they look up only to squint briefly at the still locked door, waiting.

In the middle of the playground though, far from shelter, it is thunderous. The rain beats down and bounces back up like little soldiers across the tarmac. Forgoing a coat, my top is sodden and heavy, my hair plastered darkly across my cheeks. My head is held high, water running into my eyes where it stings. I watch the door too, waiting. Waiting for her to burst through and chase across the swollen ground where I will brace myself, ready. Waiting for the sun to come out.

Rhonda