You’d think that mountains would be worn
with looking, that a booted gaze
would have eroded fells, left tarns
as dried-up bowls; or that a blaze
of seeing would have scorched waterfalls
and lakes, welded summits in a haze
of steam; melted dry-stone walls.
But from the side of Blencathra, look back
and down, at Derwentwater sliding from grey
to silver, from mercury to glass; at the track
to the summit, now you see it, now it’s away
in the mist, having a laugh at the sight
of you, with camera, trying to snatch it in flight.