from Blencathra

A Blencathra Battering

Constant battering
Relentless winds buffeting
An endless roaring

Crouching low like grass
tussocks ... but, rootless, become
blown lost tumbleweed

Careless cold stone with
no cover and no respite
No comfort is found.

The wind aggressor
Forces its way up nostrils
Ripping at membranes

Lunging at the lungs
It claws at the remnant soul and
Devours any life left.

then, helpless, all air
is snatched leaving a gasping
paralysed nothing

It is not gentle.
Mind, body and soul shredded -
Death abuses life.

Constant battering
It is the brutality
Of relentless grief.