It started with a gentle breeze, growing in strength to become a blustery gale. Passers-by held their skirts, protecting their modesty. Ladies with long hair struggled to see past the candy-floss-like mass that swirled around their heads, covering their faces.
The whirling wind buzzed and whistled, rattling everything in its path, lifting piles of fallen leaves and allowing them to take flight, free to travel to a place where they had never been before.
Overlapping clouds drifted in the sky, oblivious to the chaos below, blocking out the light.
Growing velocity of the invisible force brought a strange light, a hint of yellow, adding to the autumnal scene. Deepening in colour, the air whisking through the neighbourhood revealed a sepia scene, an apocalyptic sky.
Everyone stopped to stare, to point, and to photograph the star of the show; the sun, resembling a blood orange sliced in half.
The wind whispered a language nobody understood, no doubt revealing the secrets of the terror it had left behind, the havoc it had planned for those further north.
As it passed, an air of calm replaced it, and the hint of yellow faded; the Sub Saharan sand relocating, scattering over the British Isles like glitter that’s lost its shine.
People spoke of the great storm of 1987, lashing waves, fallen trees, buildings destroyed and lives lost.
Although we no longer see it, the occasional gust of wind reminds us that Ophelia – now downgraded from hurricane status – continues its journey, a single-aim mission of destruction. My thoughts are with those in the eye of the storm, those in its path, and those already hit.
Keep safe, friends in the north and in Scotland.