When storm clouds spell put your name,
it’s hard not to take it personally.
Shifting letters, miles high, grow heavy
and dark as they fill the sky.
Sunshine appears in patches, a
mismatched jigsaw. When you step in,
it flickers and fades, the fuse board blown.
Rain, when it decides to fall,
seeks you out, small homing missiles,
following your frantic steps down the street.
As it slams into your ears, soaks through
your cheap anorak, it whispers threats,
drawn from details you only told notebooks
and kept buried in a locked drawer.
Do not think of lightning.
There are times when bolts are thrown
almost at your feet and you jump
and weave to avoid being struck.
Go where people pool and flow.
Look up. More clouds metamorphose,
more than you ever noticed before.
Each person glances at their own squall
as it follows them, unwavering.
A stranger beckons you under an umbrella.
Stand still together and be dry.