Go running boy beneath steel sky, hare over blue brick pavement sluiced clean by rain cascade, he cannot reach home before the storm breaks. Wednesday or Thursday: the story hour swerved from tales of the Odyssey to the Norse gods – Thor, Woden, Ragnarök. For full two minutes the deluge ceased, then a violet flash tore calico air: a ball of light slowly dips over his head to fuzz and bounce in front of his gaze, before shooting over a house leaving a stench of sulphur or ozone. He stood amazed as the rain dropped again saturating his skin. That torpid ball he’d never seen before or since. That was the first night he slept with the dictionary under his pillow in his oak bed dreaming of what the thunder said.
Published in I am therefore I write (Imprimata 2014)