On the Old Man of Coniston


We climbed on through the ragwort clouds
And found the landscape’s hidden roof.
The light was almost blinding here.
The knotted paths we’d walked in youth
Lost in a sea of flowing white,
Where only blue grey shoulders rose
Above the mists, as though the world
Below us was in deep repose.
Up here our voices didn’t move.
They simply fell, and lay there, dead.
So, folding up our maps and mouths
We found a rock and sat, instead,
And drank the coffee in our flasks,
A long way from the empty crowd,
And watched the new born universe
Of islands in their lake of cloud.


14 responses to “On the Old Man of Coniston

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