Wyeman

Poetry

Back to Journal

Saturday, August 20, 2005
1:52 PM

Immortal Fell.   

In the East the soft, pale, silk dawn gently lays itself across the lush green fells.
The still, quiet peace of early morning soon to be invaded by the day, is greeted by the Jackdaws’ lonely call.

City dwellers from afar, eyes on high, feet clad firm, moving to become, for their own short space of time, a small part of the ageless beauty of this oldest of lands.
Rainproof wrapped, knapsack backed, they slowly climb to views whose beauty wraps them in its’ own quiet peace.

Names whose strangeness comes from foreign lands and distant times, lead them on their lonely climbs.
What draws them they cannot say but evermore their hearts will yearn to be amongst those misty, cloud draped fells.

Rising hills that stand and wait no matter what is planned by the small, self turned minds of Man.
When we are nought but dust, our epitaph written in plastic litter, they will remain.

They will stand as they have stood since time began, their glory lit by the morning sun,
and in their awesome splendour they will not have noticed the momentary passing of that creature known as Man.

Theirs is a past we did not know, theirs is a future we will not share, they are Immortal.

Peter Clark. 1986




powered by Fotki