Monsters of London #1

They warn you it's coming,
in dry, overhead tones,
resigned, as if
we could no more stop it
than fashion bones into bedspreads.
The ground shivers; mini scout rumbles
sneak ahead; the wind without source
gremlin-paws your hair
and there she blows.
The serpent blasts through,
belly stuffed with victims,
most still moving.

And stops,
smelling us.
Yawns its many jaws apart,
invites.

Dizzied, we forget to run
and instead fight to cram
into its guts, merging
into multi-limbed swill
as it smacks lips together
and rampages on
to ravage Woodford,
but first Hainault.