Friday, 4 January 2013

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. 


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