A Roaring Edge
When, on that craggy moorland verge,
you make your stand, body braced
against the storms bullying bite;
when you permit the squall
to sweep your soul awake
attending only to the winds voice,
its howling funnel
forged in whirlpools of chaos,
then you will sense that thin thread
that holds you to this momentary life.
If then you suffer the stabbing rain
to corkscrew your mind,
allow the gust-mobbed gale
to expose each molecule of fear
you thought you had banished;
just being there within that mauling,
a hub in the dynamo
of an endlessly turning,
then your breath
will be one with the breathing sky.
If you remain there
all of you that is unrooted
must sink or rise, and if you dare
to grasp that howling by its throat
you will deliver yourself
to the deep dale or the soaring sky
newmade,
as transpicuous as daylight,
your spirit magnified
in the pristine eye of God.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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