The Triumph of Madness

You climb through the quarry
as the skies close in
on the last vestige of blue,

dark and violent,
there is no mistaking their intention.
The wind moans

through the mountains,
and debris swats at you,
hurtful as it flees the same winds

that pursue you.
You limp, wounded still
from storms past,

wounded, yet defiant,
heading not for shelter
in the midst of the growing storm,

but for the high ground,
a place to shake your fist
in the triumph of madness.

About this poem

The picture was taken a few days ago as I was walking through the quarry. A storm was coming and I was hurrying home in hopes of getting there before the deluge. I made it, but I could not help stopping to take this picture and to imagine what it would be like to stand at the pinnacle of the quarry’s slate mountain and watch the storm as it roared over the valley.

Tom