David Weston
The Old Man
Out of the ice-quarried, stream-ravaged bowl,
Clinging to a rusted pipe (we knew
No Wainwright then, made our own paths) until
We reached the poisoned tarn,
Shocking, copper-sulphate blue;
Then gulley, scree, into the swirl
Of grey wool, blank incurious sheep,
The steepness pounding in our heads,
Discarding clothes by cairns till I
Forgot that he was forty-nine,
Forgot the debts and drinking sprees,
The wishful-thinking lies, my mother’s tears,
The old Jag boiling up on Wrynose Pass
And running out of petrol on the B5289,
Thought only of how close we stood
Together on that heap of raw wet slate
In triumph by the trig-point, smiling
Through the blast despite the lack of any view.
Page(s) 21
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