Patches of blue, and patches of cloud
and lots of birds – the crows are loud;
there's sun on your face and light in your hair
and a smile in your eyes as you breathe in the air
                 ascending the ridge.

Up and away to the bare, pointed peak
to the sense of real freedom, the joy that you seek -
You look just the way you're dear to me
and you pant from the climb and I glad I can see
                 you're enraptured.

      Still, in my mind you're there across the room
      examining your hands. They're old, you say,
      the veins, the texture – but that is not the point.
      What matters is that we have not been young
      together yet, since you will not believe
      you're more than beautiful to me and so
      you never gave me any chance to break
      through your defences. Is it that I am
      not worth the try, not good enough to let
      those barriers down? You say you're getting old.
      Well, so am I. So what? Your eyes, that smile
      will hurt, the more so since we never try
      to chase away the sense of pressing time,
      too finite, too uncaring, closing in...

The sun retreats. Before grey sky
squalls of pale rain come hurrying by.
Your face gets drawn, mood black as ink,
the rapture's gone and my heart sinks –
                 Drear cold's on my back
                 and there's clouds descending
                 from Cribyn.

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