The Malverns
The kettle whistles its approval
As Felicity listens attentively
To how I'd been out first thing,
To climb to the top of the Malvern's,
Hoping to find the hills peaceful and still
But finding the beacon fizzy and busy,
Percolated and punctuated with purposeful people.
The grippy shoes of Mr North Face
As he woos Cath Kidson,
Practical in her polka dots with her secret pockets
Where hope springs eternal.
He is her tonic, makes her complete -
I pun how she dreams
To be schwept off her feet.
I pour out the tea,
“Well, well, well,”
I tell Felicity,
“The Malvern's - what an enigma!
A bare bald hill without pomp or circumstance,
Famed for water that contains,
Nothing.
Felicity gazes over and agrees as I sip my tea
“How wonderful to be the outdoors,
Always live-streamed as ‘great’.
‘The great outdoors’,
Never disappoints, never mediocre!”
Felicity though not a fan of dry humour
Goes with the flow
and gazes out of the window at the view.
Come late evening as shadows
Chase out and lengthen,
We transform into giants.
The lit windows of the villages in miniature below
Form an advent calendar of not yet Christmas -
A twinkling forever Narnia.
I light the log burner.
Felicity and I settle
On the worn, brushed cotton cushions
Of our cottage.
Felicity cleans her tricolour fur,
And purrs.
While I muse, how lucky we both are.
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