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