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.