Wind and lavender

She could see the wind pouring through the trees like light and hear it cuffing the wooden door as it buffeted. She could see the lightning drily cracking the moist sky with a sudden flash. She could feel the thunder groaning as the earth shuddered with its electric touch. Wild storms during the day held a peculiar fear; only a mere inconsistent smattering of rain to wet the tops of the grass, but seeing the billows of wind rampaging through the garden and across the expanse of hills in the distance, illuminated, filled her with a pressing dread. You can sit tight in the darkness, but during the day it felt like the beginning of something.

Pulling on some shoes she hurried outside again to lock up the remaining tools. The horizon had a purplish glow, interrupted here and there with streaks of brightness, and the strange wind itself seemed to crackle. She sprinted round the side of the cottage to the herb garden with its huge beds of lavender rippling in the wind.

And she found herself at a standstill at one end. He was standing at the other, a spade weighing down the spread fingers in each hand. The wind swept through the bushes around them, tugging her dress and hair in all directions. His shoulders were peppered with rain. The lavender felt moist under her fingertips. She could see the wind through his hair. She could see the lightning in his eyes. She could feel the thunder in his chest.

...

She found her way back to the house once the storm was spent.