A shower on Buttermere
As it was in the beginning, when no one
was there to name it for the thing it was.
Not the gravid air; not the touch of driven
rain on skin. Not the arch itself, curving between
theatrical mountains, nor the bright spot
of blue, piercing the turbulent grey.
Not the far slip of illumined lake, nor
the legendary flash of fallen gold
across the intervening fields; but rather
the place where, interrupted for a moment
by dark terra firma, it met itself
almost continuing under water.
A promise so slight one could scarcely
notice it made, or claim it broken.
JMW Turner, 'Buttermere Lake, a shower, c 1798'
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