I was a small, shy child, with a head covered in ginger curls that later straightened. That head was filled with stories of squabbling gods on mountains, in the underworld, waiting in halls as tall as the sky for fallen kings.

Sometimes I heard them shuffling furniture from room to room just before it rained, and watched thrown lightening bolts arc across kilometres.

I don’t remember being afraid, not of the thunder.

I’m taller now, in height at least, and there is far more that scares me.

But still there is magic in a Highveld storm, when the sky around dense black clouds is shaded yellow or a murky green, and the wind raises its head to toss trees from side to side, and street lights turn on in the middle of the afternoon.

Rain drops kamikaze to the floor with tragic determination, bringing leaves and the last of Spring’s blossoms with them.