There is a ceiling, a thick grey block, that hangs over us.
Not a shelter of any sort, and it looks about to fall.
But not before it descends and sits on us like thick cotton wool, wrapping itself around buildings and skyscrapers.
Like a thick, seductive fog making us crazy-eyed with delight— “Macam Genting Highlands,” we’d say, gazing into that strange grey, that cosy cold, that cosy chill, that envelopes everything.
And then it rains— big juicy drops of pitter-patter. A gentle thunderstorm, for hours, then days.
Dew on the windows, hardly a rumble. The kettle on, for a cup of something to keep warm in this Cameron’s weather.
And we couldn’t tell if it was friend or foe.
And then the news.
The staggering floods.
And I remembered: the stories of enchanting forests, cakes, and sweets that lull to sleep, the lair of a waiting monster.
Yet I still ask: “How could such beauty hold such danger?”