The Thunderstorm – Poem

When the lightning’s flashing
And the night is cold,
When rain pelts against our single-glazed windows
With holes at the frame,
I thank whatever it is
That I made the decision
To stay in tonight.


If we’d gone to the fire jam,
Just us, some friends,
And a lot of trees,
Standing out in the rain,
Rain so hard that we can barely
See three feet in front of our face,
Trying to keep our equipment dry
And our fires still burning.

I’m glad that I’m here,
Inside, in the warm,
Getting drunk on cheap gin
And £2.20 bottles of cider,
Listening to the storm,
But tucked away from it.

If, by some impossible chance,
The doorman didn’t check your ID tonight,
And we were at the club?
Overpriced entry
To stand in the fag pit
Smoking wet cigarettes
With only peaked 18-year-olds for company.

No, we’ve got this.
The sky is electric,
And so are we,
Embraced, mainly in silence,
With the occasional commentary
(And run-through of this poem)
To break it,
But we’re safe.
To be with you is to be myself,
And I know it’s the same for you,
And, trapped inside,
With the storm raging,
I feel like I’m in a film,
Where the heroine realises she’s loved him all along.

I’d considered, briefly, going out
For a walk along the sea,
And while I’ve no doubt the waves would be amazing,
We’d be freezing,
Wet and complaining,
Wishing we were home in our cozy little bed,
With our speakers and booze,
Our own private party.

It’s getting louder,
And brighter,
Like the world is ending around us,
Like we’re approaching the Black Gates,
But that’s out there,
And we’re in here –
Our own, private sanctuary,
Just you and me,
Standing strong against the elements.

That’s not to say
That we’re not both wishing
We could go outside without the threat
Of paranoia and a chance so minute,
That Zeus might strike us,
But we are together,
The one thing that never would have changed,
And for me, that makes my night
A good night.

Dedicated to Alex, my best friend, my love, my companion.