Sty Head Tarn
Here, in the loneliest place among the mountains,
his guide lay face down by the tarn with his dog, and slept.
In palest pencil, as if feeling his way along a continuous edge
in mist, he drew the tentative contours of three colossal forms,
like ghosts hovering on the blank page, or spirits pent.
Unsatisfied, he turned the page over, to start again in paint.
Bolder now, and in fluent strokes, he grasped the structure
and anatomy of those eternal shapes. His brush moved.
He gave himself up to meditation on the rhythm of place.
His companion still lay crumpled alongside his crook,
the dog nearby, pricking an ear and watching for rabbits.
Great End, Broad Crag and Longmell were heaving giants
under an almost cloudless sky. The tarn glistened
like a half-closed eye. A sheep bleated. The guide slept.