On Parlick Fell

parlick

They call it the clough. It’s a scar – a great gouge
That cleaves through the fell side and swallows up clouds
High on Parlick. You’ve probably noticed by now
That I like to climb mountains, but this one’s a cow.
You can’t help but be drawn to look down into space,
As the cold from its heart rushes up to your face,
And below you the gliders turn round on all fours,
Casting funeral shadows across the bleak moors.
Then you notice you’re seeing the birds from above,
So you cling to the ground out of fear and love
Of your life. And that clough where your soul has been hurled,
Is now curving away round the edge of the world.

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