Blackstone Edge

It’s Grim Up North

It were blowin’ a gale as I clambered up top,
wi’ gloves that were soggy and fingers like rock.
Weather turned sharp soon as I left tent —
aye, Pennine tricks, wi’ their cold-hearted bent.

Trig point stood there, bold as brass,
white as bone in a sea of grass.
Perched on a rock all battered and green,
weathered by storms and things it’s seen.

Moor stretched out, no end in sight —
bleak and bare, no shade nor light.
Clouds rolled in like a slow black tide,
like bruises spreadin’ across the wide.

Light were queer — not dark, not bright,
like dusk that rises, not falls at night.
It weren’t the stuff o’ holiday snaps,
no golden glows or cosy gaps.

But there were truth in that moody scene —
a rawness, aye, but sharp and clean.
It didn’t smile, it didn’t care,
it just said, “Look. I’m always there.”

And standin’ wi’ wind howlin’ in me ears,
surrounded by stone and silent years,
I felt summat deep, not lonely, nor sad,
but older than owt I’ve ever had.

Folk say, “It’s grim up north.”
Aye, mebbe it’s true —
but grim’s in us bones, runs right through.
It’s not just wet socks and skies gone grey,
it’s part of who we are up this way.

It’s in yer boots, yer bones, yer name —
and once it’s in, yer never the same.
It’s not all smiles, but it’s real as owt,
and it don’t pretend nor mess about.

Grim’s just home, wi’ its battered pride —
a place tha’ loves, but can’t explain why.
Grim gets in yer blood, but not in a bad way;
it settles in quiet, like endin’ the day.

And once it’s in, it don’t feel so grim —
it feels like home: cold, proud, and dim.