On the Esplanade overlooking the river. We’ve come to play. Above the rise on the opposite bank gathers a wedge of bitter grey. The fleeting rain falls. A biting wind gnaws at our bones. Rain turns to hail. The boys are beaten by the elements. We head back to town. behind us night turns to day. “Where is it?” George asks. Precipitation eases as the park passes behind us. Past the boating club we see it. Multiple colours arch up out of the river and over the blank canvass of storm clouds. Their depth of grey, turned solid by the brilliant winter sun, sets the varicoloured bow in sharp contrast. Each colour stands out in splendid isolation cheek-by-jowl to its neighbour. Vivid. Vibrant. We walk under its wonder into the old world town as the rainbow fades.
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