The storm rages overhead,
the wind and the rain lashes structures & the odd car that happens past.
I keep to the shadows, knowing better than to be seen.
Until now, I have been lucky;
unwitnessed in my individuality,
unmolested by the local authority.
The papers call me “The Storm Killer,” and I chuckle lightly.
It happens to be among the better names I have gone by, even if it is is innacurate.
I see a bedroom light turn on and the silouette of a teenage girl changes out of her wet clothes.
She walked with me but did not know it;
none of them realise until the end.
None know why for the truth is stranger than any fiction.
By Peter Davis-Parker