Now you see it:

Derwentwater, full on,

pinkish spill

of Good Friday silver;

mercurial shape-shifter

between mountains.



Now you don’t.

Grey film slips

Over eye-shutter, bang, gone.

Tongue tries a lick

though any sense,

even the sixth trips you.


Now you turn

to trick it, inattentive,

or attentive only

to scree-slide;

a wayward boot-lace.


 It sees you.


It looks away.

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