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.



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