The style across the road gives on the moors.
I often watch them climb it, from my chair,
The backpack walkers, drawn in by the lures
Of space and distance that are waiting there –
A stubborn landscape, even when it’s fair,
Magnificent when cloudy or when rain
Obscures the heights, infertile, stony, bare:
A rugged beauty only fools disdain.
I see them go, a sweet and bitter pain;
No longer strong, I cannot follow, bound
To this old house by gout, that like a chain
Will keep me firmly down: I’ve run aground…
Yet they bring back those perfect days I’d stalk
These selfsame moors they’re now about to walk.

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