Wet Dawn Over Coniston

    

A thousand panes and a hundred

eyes; challenge swirling mist and the

morning’s, grey sky, the water’s edge is a

precipice denied, and he teeters,

to tease of old times.

      

Stretching columns,

like a temple of sorts, belch out fresh spirits

that seem

to purport to the hills, and the mountainous

terrain, that he has withstood

far heavier rains than these sapphires,

that tumble and roll; worse gales than

this bluster that mal-forms and

folds all the trees, like green match-sticks

or grain,

as a forest slides on clouds

to meet him again.

      

Slowly, and with effort,

he creeks to his feet;

polite old gent who still stands

to greet and shake hands with his welcome guests;

shoes shone and tie on,

in his Sunday, church-best; the thousand eyes glint

and his pipes puff to test, if he still

can blow smoke rings

to delight all those present.

    

The ghost of a moon

forms a small-smiling crescent; overhead;

as he nods, and tilts his slate cap –

still as defiant and cheeky old chap, despite all his

crumbling walls…

    

The lake-fog rolls over to blanket his armchair.

    

Be seated –

I will walk to you,
weary Coniston Hall.