The Storm and the Edge

They said, “You’re mad to chase a storm—
no light is worth the cold and harm.”
But something stirred that wouldn’t rest—
a pull, a whisper in my chest.

I should’ve turned; the signs were clear:
the clouds grew low, the rain drew near.
But Blackstone Edge loomed sharp and vast,
and dared me not to let it pass.

I climbed. The wind howled, fierce and wild—
a tantrum thrown by nature’s child.
It clawed my coat; it drowned my boots;
it shook the rocks down to their roots.

Behind me, rain blurred every line—
the hills erased by nature’s sign.
My tent, a flicker, barely seen,
was swallowed in the grey between.

I paused—a fool with sodden gear,
no glory yet, no photo clear.
My fingers numb, my spirit thin—
and still that voice said, “Don’t give in.”

I found a crag, a crooked wall,
to break the gale’s relentless call.
My tripod groaned, my lens was wet,
my breath a cloud of cold regret.

Then lightning cracked, the thunder rolled—
the sky was black, the ground ice-cold.
A war above, a rage beneath—
I stood between its jagged teeth.

And then—a wound in the cloud, a slit
that spilled celestial light. And in a blink—the storm pulled wide—
and poured the sun across the side.

The moor transformed, the stones alive,
like something ancient did revive.
The gritstone shone, obsidian-dark,
lit gold at every glowing mark.

The fields that dulled in shadow’s hand
now blazed with fire across the land.
The lake below, once lost to view,
reflected heaven, pure and true.

For five brief minutes, maybe less,
the world was raw and limitless—
a secret shown, then quickly sealed,
a truth the storm alone revealed.

And just as fast, the light was gone—
the veil pulled tight, the fire withdrawn.
But I remained, heart hammering still,
alive atop that ancient hill.

It’s not the photo, not the fame—
it’s standing where the wild things claim.
Where few will go, and fewer stay,
to meet the storm and not give way.