Within these walls, I sit here dry
I sit here warm, and wait to spy
The rambler step below the mist.
He’s there! Sure-footed, tumbling down
The rocks he bounces with a cautious haste (well-practiced lest
Hard rain his Gortex test).
Though I can’t see, I’d swear
Upon his face, for home is nigh.
Whatever clouds may eastwards flee
From blue-green Lancashire, you’ll see
Me step out o’er the tea-stained Wharfe
And on into the hills. Be damned
Hard rain, you feeble foe! In cast-off tweeds, in boots near-wrecked,
And hairy head bedecked
In wide-brimmed, oily hat,
You spy tomorrow will be me.