Scafell
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Andrew Blakemore
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From the shaded peaks
Which score the waking sky,
The lines of violet heather
Sweep along the verdant slopes.
Sinking softly
Unto the silver waters,
Which lie sleeping
Within a veil of mist below.
Abridged,
By the dark patches of scree,
The razor roughened edges
Breaking the contours
Of the weathered way.
The rugged scars
The saws of stone,
The jagged teeth
The mouths of rock.
Shadows creeping
In a wave of clouded silence,
In changing hues
Of light and shade
Which never seem to rest.
Andrew Blakemore
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