Storm at 414 metres

A darkening sky to the west. The start of the storm rolling in

Storm at 414 metres

N54° 25.807′  W3° 04.742′

in the black pitch of our tent
we have entered the breathed-out silence
of a sleep that floats on moss and mountain air

we sense it long before we know it
elemental data transferred
from earth to bones
and through the filaments of hairs

our bodies wake to earth’s vibrations
sudden eyes wide open at the shock of a white night
air electric with the end and the beginning of things

they say that an atom does not exist
but is the illusory sum of particles too small
for us to see: strange and charming
quarks dance in and out of existence
a play of life that can be spoken of
yet never grasped

scale it up from an atom to this entire sky
broiling above the crinkled hills

the noise outsounds wind, rain, streams, trees,
my breath, his breath, words, thoughts

the roar of a moment expanded
an unlikely stretch of time
when the night is wrenched apart
and for the briefest flash
I have to check
I am still here


For the last eight months poems have been gently growing, seeded by our experiences out in the fells and valleys. Most of the work is still in note form and is quietly marinading, not yet ready for full expression, but I though I’d share this one that emerged from our stormy night during July’s camp.

The morning after the storm, with the clouds still rolling over the fells.
The morning after the storm, with the clouds still rolling over the fells.

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