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?