I promised my former self
That I would not write
This for thirty years
Early May 1994
I was working late again
I hated working late
As I detested my job
But I needed the money
I had been vaguely
Aware of the storm
But ignored it
At about seven
In the evening
I was in the lane
That fringed the river
It was very wet
My umbrella was useless
But I still used it
Little did I know
That my umbrella
Was about to die painfully
I would survive
With superficial injuries
But the skin
Of my umbrella
Would grotesquely melt
There was blinding flash
Which knocked me over
No noticeable sound
Possibly a rumble
Just a blinding flash
I could taste burning wood
But there was no fire
My umbrella was a yard distant
It was drowning
In a sorry stream
I was concerned about me
Had I just died
Was my life being reflected
In the windows
Of a passing train
I was quite alive
My hands were bleeding
As the lane was rough
The air was still tingling
I began to run blindly
Towards the road
That led to the road
That led to my house
My wife witnessed
My evening distress
I had a fall
Having slipped
That was all
I cleaned up
Ate my dinner
And later retired
With the newspapers unread
Joe May 1994