People are working at fever pitch, rushing around to get things done. Everything’s stuffy and clammy, damp, and everyone’s mood is down. The streets are full of running business men and women, restraunts, cafes and takeaways empty, pubs overflowing.

And then comes the calm.

Everyone’s rushed indoors, even the pub doors are shut and barred, all the homeless from the streets are cradled in a shelter, all that is left on the street is a few fluttering pages from a dropped news letter and me.

I stand still in the almost still world and wait for the storm to come out of me, to build from my rage and shred the street.

I stand perfectly still and my soul is pounding with the sound of my name.

‘Taranis. Taranis. Taranis’ comes the bellows of my soul, and the echoe of it is the coming of the storm.