The Rambler

At random speeds, at random heights,
Puffed up in random greys and whites,
The clouds from Lancashire skim low
As they drift east o’er Beamsley Beacon,
Swallowing the summit, where a resting rambler who,        
Deprived of view,
Now stands and hoists his pack
So he can
Back    
To Addingham. As well he might!

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
No frown
He’ll wear
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,
The rambler
That
You spy tomorrow will be me.

Simon Mayor