Catch 22 on the Lake District hills.
Scrambling up on Tilberthwaite Ghyll
Eyes to ground
Hands hard on knees
Cold breeze burns
That chilling sound
Amplifies my inner wheeze
O'er the shale
And rough-stacked slate
Hamstrings pull like husky dogs
Skirt the ravenous ravine
Disowned quarry, mildewed logs
Onwards upwards Lakeland track
Gaze locked firmly
On the path
How far till I dare look back
How far till I risk its wrath
To tread these ways?
Rewarding sights.
Must prove I have
No fear of heights
These landscapes jeer
Each time they're calling
They sense
I'm just
Afraid
of
f
a
l
l
i
n
g.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem