Hail-Ho

So I was writing about Atlantis, drinking nettle tea, as you do.

Next thing I know, Atlantis on the doorstep, with a roar and a clatter. Hail-stones the size of peas. The size of pasta shells. The size of ping-pongs. They're still battering the tin roof. I hope not to have to mention goose eggs in the next sentence.

The street outside starts to look like a Christmas postcard.



The back path is a white river, the balcony a lake. Ice age inside plant pots.



I clutch an umbrella and wade in. A little orange tree outside, already in bloom, becomes my mission. The water comes to my ankles. A few steps in, frostbite seems imminent. No matter, no matter. One hand clutches the shredded umbrella. Another pulls and drags the orange tree under the eaves. Shuffle, shuffle, splash. By now, I look like a frosted elf in a garden center, and I could make cocktails for 40 with the ice in my left boot alone. If I had a third hand, I'd take a picture of my visit-to-Atlantis.

But then again, maybe not. Every legend needs its mystery.