poet. writer. imposter.
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.