Alison Wells Author

On the window they hang, these globules of water, those transparent ovals, their own surface tension holding them together. As I child I use to trace them with my finger, a kind of pluvial join the dots. But the fascination both then and now is with the tipping point of a raindrop, the moment it becomes too heavy for itself and lets go of its position, streaking down the pane, gathering others with it, leaving a clear trail.