The Lost Cumbrian
Don’t take me unless to the cry of the hawk
Not supported or transported – just let me walk.
No matter that muscles protest and begin to ache
When clouds scud over the peaks and cast shadows across the lake.
Don’t take me if the foothills fail to season
Do not flower – or lie dormant – defying reason.
If the golden trumpets won’t rise up with the dawn
To follow the light till it’s time to droop again, and yawn.
Don’t take me in mid-winter unless of course it’s white
Glistening when the sun shines, eerie grey at night.
When owls flap silently through the wood of conifer tree
The frozen landscape aiding – their prey not getting free.
Don’t take me in the autumn until the first leaves fall
Not on the paths of the tramping feet of visitors who just call.
Let me spring on soft needles of pine
Alone in the forest - alone with my mind.
I care not whether rain or wind should blow
Just always relishing the sheer purity of snow.
On the hills, in the dales – on the lake edges bare
Why - oh why am I not already there?
Copyright © Brian Fisher