/ Brushstrokes

From Honister Crag

From Honister Crag

Climb to the top, nearly the very top,
to meet the wild that is before and behind.
Empty it is and wide;
not a sheep or circling buzzard ever in view.
For once, in the midday sun, all is bright
and the grass dry underfoot –
a grainy ground of gold. The rock is
no longer rock but a drench of airy light,
the vast unpeopled range laid open.
The sky’s not blue but lemon-white,
the outline of Glaramara fluid, almost diaphanous.
You are nowhere in the picture – painted out:
a gasp of breath-held sight.

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From Honister Crag
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