Grief.
Weather moves quickly in the mountains,
and acts out its dramas on a larger stage.
We awoke to the expectant dawn, ate
by the long shadows of a cowering sun,
while an army of dark clouds decamped
despatched their batallions up the valley,
until the summits were shrouded and green slope,
grey crag grew sombre with dread.
Then a relentless rain dropped like net curtains,
drawn across the windows of the mind.
Sorrow flowed down the face of the fell,
merged with the grumbling river and the angry
tumbling flood took it all back to the sea. .
I love this poem. My sister lives in Cumbria and it describes the conditions and scenery there perfectly. I am also a writer and poet. Wonder if we’re related!
Glad you like the poem, Lorna. And good to meet another poetical Read. My dad had a bit of a bard about him too. Best wishes, Nick