A Pennine walk on limestone rock
Where coarse grass clothes the upland hill.
The Herdwicks watch, a woolly flock
That graze above steep sided gill.
Astounding vistas feed the eye
And steal the breath of passers by.
A perfect place to weep and wail
Like curlews rising from the fell,
Cry rivers that could flood the dale
With pain that time will never quell.
The guilt when grieving for the dead,
Regretting words that went unsaid.
A walk of life, from birth to death,
Where paths entwine and fork and end.
Ascents that leave me out of breath
And wounds that bleed as I descend.
You died and part of me died too.
Alone, in sorrow, missing you.
By Keith Hill