Walker

These inclines, and the river running by,
Skirting the lumbering masses. Sky high.
Gently moulded socks, give way, purple haze.
Bright red flecks as giants blood draws gaze.
Shadow, sweeping hills and valleys narrow
Heaped with plastic rustic charm. Sheep and fallow.
Look out points, painted view, pretty screen.
So brushed buffed boots admire polished scene.
Silent save for our panting breaths we pull
To dizzy heights above it all. The rest
Miss hard knot bends and aching limbs.
They nestle in their cosy hollows, dribble
Wordswoth onto mossy pillows.
We reach for freedom.
A wilderness of sky.
Through rain sliced hair and knotted grey mists
We spy, upon a valley map, before our weary feet.
The farmer, early up to tend his wayward flock.
Out heavy exhilaration, spurred surly wind.
Sweeping them, from their rolling slopes,
Flattening the peace and tranquillity of their, wet Windermere.
Leering as they, through running glass peer
And together with a sudden fear,
Flea.
The land that they named pretty, picturesque
Which turned wild, and drove away the rest.