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For twelve long hours I journeyed northward
Alone, toward the land of mountains,
Where the lakes are cold, icy and grey
And where the steep lush fells rise high and proud.

The year is young and still in the first month,
And the coldness of the winter pierces me hard;
But I venture on, transfixed, by the land as it looms,
Through my senses, I experience the season's spell.

I walk the varied passes, so empty, icy and cold,
A whirlwind of snow spins in chaos, its destination unknown,
It crosses my path, in frenzied haste, across a windswept valley,
That glows so vivid, in orange hue, from a sinking sun.

Another day arrives: bitter, lonely and cold,
A fair-weather sky passes over, which pleasantly lifts my mood,
And around me, the mountains lie, sleeping through the ages
Their snow-crested peaks ever changing from the kiss of every breeze.

The Langdales are crowned again!
Such splendid forms in white;
I pass into a valley, beyond their stately forms
Where two paths suddenly become possible, when ventured with care.

I begin my cautious ascent, determined to go high,
And climb the lofty snowline, pursuing an early track,
But the way becomes too narrow and fear begins to grip
As my footing becomes unsteady on a ledge beside a gully.

I go no further: the drop to my right whispers 'peril!'
I turn and safely head back until I can truly rest,
The top is out of reach, I will not see what lies beyond;
It will remain a mystery until another time.

Small clouds sweep past, close overhead,
But the view is still beautiful and I can see for miles;
I hear the wind, and the water from the deep gully,
But no other sound is heard, as I sit, alone, in the snow.

 

Written by Mark Woollacott
13th December 2008.