Every summer I’m torn between the fact that I sometimes feel I was originally created from a spare sunbeam, such is my love for this brilliant golden season. While the sunshine promotes a lightness of spirit, its warmth soothes me, resulting in the desire to venture outside into the garden or to go off trekking into the great outdoors, both with such promise that I have difficulty in choosing between them. It’s the flipside of summer with its natural horror of what lays in wait, as Sol sucks the life out of all nature’s plant life that causes the contradiction.
Scanning the far off horizon for any signs of smoke through the almost blinding white glare, caused by the unrelenting blazing sun unmercifully radiating down, seemingly to enjoy the triumph of drying out the last vestige of green from the fields and gardens spread out before me.
As the dreaded hot northerly winds starts whipping the dry scorched earth into gritty choking sandstorms, one can almost sense the ever alert fire watchers catch a collective apprehensive breath, as they pray to God that no one or thing lights a match or sheds a spark.
A cold shiver of fear almost blocks the brain from registering the wispy spiral of smoke, drifting skyward, far behind the mountain ranges snuggled down there in the valley, gleefully being whipped into a full-blown grey funnel that’s quickly spreading into a telltale cloud of doom.
Was it a lightning strike, a carelessly thrown cigarette butt, or a sick mind brandishing a box of matches, the conception at the moment isn’t the main concern, that will come later.
Days of horror and destruction pass. Fire-fighters, volunteers and property owners all exhausted, homes razed, forests devastated flora and fauna gone, temporarily leaving the inhabitants with nothing but a life without green.