The Calm Before the Storm
I’ve taken many shots before,
But one still haunts me to the core —
Not for its peace or golden glow,
But for the violence, none could know.
Near Thirlmere’s banks, the grasses flared.
In autumn’s fire, the earth lay bared.
A tree stood skeletal and stark,
Its fingers stretched to catch the dark.
Above, a rainbow carved the sky,
A bold, defiant lullaby.
While the mist coiled low, like a ghostly breath,
And all around there whispered death.
Helvellyn watched with ancient eyes —
A titan carved in stone and skies.
The moment shone, too still, too warm…
I didn’t blink — I knew the storm.
And sure enough, as night came near,
The quiet broke, replaced by fear.
The sky collapsed, the heavens tore,
And wind began its brutal roar.
The rain fell hard; the cold sank deep,
The mountain woke from timeless sleep.
My tent, once firm, was flung aside —
Its ribs snapped loud before they died.
I stood alone in savage dark.
No guiding light, no hopeful spark.
But I had planned — a thread, a thread —
Between the living and the dead.
With gear strapped tight and headlamp lit,
Through roaring black I dared commit.
Each gust a scream, each step a fight,
Each breath a prayer to last the night.
The hills that smiled in a copper hue,
Now loomed like beasts I barely knew.
Their beauty gone, their warmth erased,
Their shadows long, their silence laced.
But somewhere carved in Lakeland stone,
A man unknown had stood alone.
Malcolm Prentice — name never forgot —
Built Woof Cave, and bore the cost.
And there I ran, soaked through and worn,
A soul adrift by fury torn.
No comfort in that hollowed place —
But walls that held, and time and space.
I thought then of the photo framed.
The world before it all was maimed.
How fragile beauty’s breath can be —
How thin the veil of what we see.
Had I not known, had I not planned,
That cave, that route, that light in hand —
The tale would end in silence, still,
Upon that cold, unyielding hill.
So here’s the truth, laid bare and stern:
The earth is wild, and does not learn.
She gives you splendour, sharp and brief —
Then tears it down like a falling leaf.
Prepare, prepare, if you would roam —
For nature’s heart is not your home.
Hope for the best — it’s what we do —
But pack for hell — he’s coming too.