Poetry 1.8

Lake district

Roads with no paths
Twist then turn
At speeds of sixty
Cyclists dog walkers camping hikers
Line the edges – don’t get hit
Sheep wonder freely
Beyond the cattle grates
Hills go up, and up, and up, and down
Then up some more,
Trees roots knot on large boulders
Leaning out the branches finger tips
Brush the surface of the water,
Homes build from stone instead of brick
Surrounding huge lake, that trickles to a river.
Night is actually night, stars clear,
Sun disappears behind a bowl of mountains.