i - Two
The first phrase I spoke
was in awe of the storm.
As the sky tore ablaze,
my eyes widened
and I pointed to the clouds.
With tiny voice, I described
the scene unfolding,
as fully as my vocabulary
would allow. ‘Pretty lights,’
I said, ‘pretty lights,’ came
an echo with a smile attached,
and we watched until I slept.
ii - Seven
The aspen in the garden trembled
in charged air, scared perhaps
of the oncoming storm. Recognising
the signs, I took my position
on the windowsill and waited
for the rumbling and dagger show.
Fat thunder surged but refused
to give up its light; tension mounted
and the sky, accumulating, finally
found its release shattering
the pebbled crusted concrete post
mere feet from my vantage. Consumed
by blue/white brilliance that dissipated
along the now angry glowing wires;
humming, whining with primal hate.
The aggregate released flew and broke
the window in a spray of ragged bullet
holes. I ran to the safety of the dalek-free
space behind the sofa, feeling bitter
and betrayed by my pretty, pretty lights.
iii – post
When the rain passed and the air no longer
splintered, I touched the still warm stump. The fence
wires, melted and misshapen - slag scabs now frozen
mid-drip - made me wonder what we had done
to deserve this theatre of electric wrath. I looked
at the clouds, now cracked open with cobalt hue,
and apologised to the sky.
Will Vigar 
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