Perspective to the peak, a loose assembly
Roughly conical, of stones; an accumulation
Not too permanent, a pride to add to,
An anarchist’s joy to disperse.
The first time, in summer, heather grew
To the west, on the steep slope facing the abbey,
And bracken still green, its coarse fronds
A dry sea down to the first wall climbing.
Again, in autumn, when the rain long lost
Had quenched the burning roots and peat
Had cooled the stones’ hot day and night,
The western slopes were black burned to the ploughed field.
Winter’s bright January day found a boy scout’s flag
On top and motorists en famille strolling,
Prosperity’s bright colours stippling the grey stones,
Dogs and children weaving the grass tufts.
But February’s snow, wet and unfrosted
Nudged by rain and cloud drew no friends
From firesides, and only a child’s determination
Grooved sleigh lines where no foot had trod.