The lake path was full of dog and old coat,
Crocked with knee and boot and sock and gnarled stick
And smile that sought a word sent to or fro.
He branched off to the wood, cracked dumb twig, plucked
And swished a frond of fern, whacked bark, kicked stone.
And still it pushed its plum, this pal, this plod.
So struck up north on a thin lick of leaf
And soon heard nil by mouth, just crunch of step
As he rose to foot of fell. Hold! There it
Stood, a string of puffed old man with flask – Hell!
What must a soul do to hold his own spot?
Not here he thought, pegged past and on and up.
More head he saw, more hat, more stick, more glove,
High now with view of lake, but yet of man.

Strode on and up he did to top of rise
And met a crowd of life with cheek of rose
All crisp of brow, red ear, and sleek of nose.
This must be lost, he snarled, and hoofed down dip,
Through quag of mud, skipped beck and hopped a wall
Then climbed a scree at pace as goat would flee,
Hit rock and hoicked up leg and arm to top,
Half the dull day now gone since he set off.
Now claimed his ridge of range, breathed deep and long,
Then spied sole pink of pate, bald and bold – There!
It rose with care and sure would meet him soon –
He turned and ran, bounce of boot, thump of soul,
Wild of way, leg to ledge, heart to edge – on
And on. He crossed this plate of grey – now stopped.

It was a tarn – a pool of peace – no path
Came here. No man but he. A laugh. Now free.

Seeing the saltmarsh suddenly stretching
bright to a distant dark horizon pressed
by the blue and grey Galloway hills

Surprised by the wide expanse of grazing
land on the edge cut through by creeks
which fill and flow with fast running tides

Stopped by the Solway kings and emperors
died or built walls while Eden and Annan
Esk and Nith continued to carve their treacherous channels

Silenced warriors moss troopers gone
no boats but wanderers chancing wilderness
in hides and Barbours seeking birds

Seasoned invaders bewick and barnacle
pinkfoot from Spitzbergen come south to winter
on wide wet pastures where whaups still call.

Before
the hills stand in quiet grace

the scent of pine, wild heather, and rain-soaked earth

the sun spills over the jagged ridges, glowing

across lakes where ripples stretch in silent arcs

into stillness

as winds breathe through ancient woodlands

in this space where time slows its race

where the mountains whisper of forgotten tales

Here in Cumbria, where the land holds memory deep

the rivers carve stories into the valley’s heart

like the soft embrace of morning mist rising

Remembrance
in the lakes, silence speaks

the flutter of wings above the water’s edge, ancient and free

the flicker of lanterns on cobblestone paths, stories untold

Can it be? Did the moors hum with song long ago?

She dreams of a fell,

its silhouette etched against the setting sun, a promise &

fields of gold where cattle graze under wide skies.

The rocky peaks cut into the horizon,
Veins wind through the land, inviting you in.
The trees exhale a crisp scent, filling your senses.
The rolling hills rise and fall, steadily, like a heartbeat.

The water is glass, a watchful eye, mirroring the ever changing sky.
But, when the wind stirs, ripples glide across the surface.
Nerves stretch to the water’s edge, reaching out at the walls nearby.
They are the ribs, steady and strong, keeping Cumbria singing its song.

But from the still water, a distant pulse calls.
Rivers surge, blood rushing to the heart.
As you are pulled closer, the crash roars, fierce and alive—
Aira Force pounds, never pausing, flowing day and night.
The pulse of Cumbria jumps beneath your feet.

Yet beyond the roar, the hills exhale,
Flowing gently, a breath that never tires.
As you leave the heart,
The drums still echo, a welcome reminder of Cumbria’s pulse.

The moment to leave has come,
You say goodbye to the friend that never fades.
But next year, you’ll return—
To heal the ache only Cumbria can.

At dusk, when the sun begins to set,
When the owls emerge,
And swoop low over the glimmering pools,
Searching for an easy hunt to feed their young.

As the night stretches on,
Cantankerous badgers lumber out of their dens;
The stars that puncture the midnight blue sky,
Twinkling brightly.

Once the morning sun has risen,
The emerald green fields become alive,
As all the animals wake up,
And the valley floor becomes noisy,
Like nature’s own orchestra.

The cockerel crows,
And it wakes the farmer,
To feed her livestock,
She won’t forget,
The animals will make sure of that.

In the afternoon,
She gets a big surprise,
For in the shed,
Lies a woolly package of life,
Curled up next to its proud mother,
The lamb is so small and fragile,
It’s new life could make your heart melt.

Then once again, the cycle restarts.

Up in the fells,
Herdwick sheep are all around,
Jumping,
Leaping,
And sneaking,
Through minuscule cracks,
In their stone wall cells.

Red squirrels hurtling,
Up the trees,
Finding a place,
To hide their nuts.
Waiting for the seasons,
To change once again.

Little ants are on the fells,
Wait zoom in,
It’s tourists traversing the land.

Crowded streets,
On May day,
And Winter droving,
That thousands come to see.

High fells,
Enormous rivers,
Great for sailing,
Gigantic forests.

Lets go climbing,
Up our fellow fells,
Hay!
Who stole my boots?