We met under the ivy tree,
at the bottom of Walna Scar Road.
The branches reaching for our heads —
our height measured in bough, not metres.
We raced up and down the long tongue,
clinging to the hard crag like wet clothes
to bodies. The Forge was next, but we missed
it with all our dreaming of Endmoor.
We danced past High Hay Bridge,
broke down on Low Hay Bridge.
You screamed to the void in Arthur Wood,
walked alone by Appletree Holme.
You felt the ghost of my hands as you
scaled Furness Fells, wondering if you
would make it back out of Height of Winder.
By moss side, you called me, but I didn’t answer,
too busy with stones and lips at Potter Fell.
You laid down in Littlewood, as you thought
of Great Wood and the day you got down on one knee.
You sigh as you realise, the only way you’ll find me
is in the water upon the Old Man of Coniston.
And even then, it is only a past phantom
that cannot keep you company, like I did.
Written in response to theme, “Valentine”.
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