Soft rain begins. Outlines
blur. Helvellyn crouches,
a wet dog. I walk the path
alone, adrift in watercolour,
held in a bowl of birch
and scree.
Follow dry-stone ribs past
Nettleslack and Boredale Head;
drop down the ridge. Grey church
tucked like a sheltering
leveret. Beside the gate the
obelisk.
I scribble names.
Water drips from quiet yews.
Among the stones
I look for clues.
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