The storm is electric

The storm is electric

A stampede of rain,

An incessant accompaniment

To the rumble of thunder

The flash of lightning,

Brightening the sky.

Dispelling darkness.

Strange silhouettes

Tortured tree tops twisting,

Widely beckoning,

Threatening and uprooting,

Tossed into the air

Like the old flat caps

Of the home supporters

At a football match

In the olden days

When a goal was scored.

Dockside cranes

Still visible above the terraces

Poor boys without tickets

Perched dangerously

In the spider work

Chasing the danger,

Wide-eyed faces freshly caught

In wonder.

A simplicity of pleasures

Largely disappeared.

The wind whistles a warning

Through the alleyways

Of sink estates

Wind tunnels, sorely missing

Any safe haven.

Cladded walls scrawled

With inflammable graffiti

Rarely daubed with originality

Unless in the style of a Banksy

The real ones are protected

Against theft and disfigurement,

Even in Kiev

As the northwind whips through

Hardship,

Exposing the underbelly.

The presence of erosion

Stripping away the layers

Of a broken community

In an acceleration of decline,

A perfect storm

To die for.