Down from the mountains it comes on the darkest of winter nights, dashing through the blackness, howling as it goes. The deep forest, leafless and dead, offers no shelter, it sets the trees thrashing with the wind of its passing as the beast circles round and around whipping its tail at everything in reach. There is nowhere to hide from the tireless thing which seeks only to pull and tear at all it finds, leaving branches shredded and dangling. It leaves the woods behind, gathering speed on the open ground, ripping through hedges, sending the autumnal detritus scattering as it passes, and all the time the howling never ceases. At last it reaches the home of its human prey, peering through lose shutters and banging them closed in anger, uprooting trees and bushes in frustration on its never ceasing voyage of destruction. It seeks the unwary and even those safe and warm behind locked doors fear the beast as they hear it clawing at roof tiles and chimneys sending them toppling, few escape the savagery of its passing. Winter’s storm is lose, dashing through the blackness, howling as it goes.
Copyright © Nick Bagnall