The Bounder and I have had an argument. So he’ll be absent from posts for a while. Here’s a poem I wrote during a trip to Wales, featuring you know who.
Struck by quiet and solemnity
I gazed at the ridge of purple headed mountains.
Ancient guardians glowered,
Still, massive and portentious.
My kind rendered babyish and insignificant.
I could only manage
“It’s very mountainy isn’t it?”
“Well,” you replied,
“I think ideally, Mountains
are without sheep and trees,
less green, more craggy
And with something unassailable about them.”
“So these are?”
Later, as the road dipped
And we wove round canyon edges,
Cadyr Idris towered above us.
This time I could not speak at all.
I thought that God,
With a white beard and everything,
Might peer over the top.
My sense of humility in the presence of such majesty
Almost outwieghed my sense of annoyance that you were right;
Making molehills out of my mountains.
“We should get supplies before
We enter the wilderness.”
“Hmm,”you almost agreed.
“Though the wilderness will not be extreme
Our chances of encountering a Spar
Will diminish by about a thousand percent.”
I found a perfect mossy rock
Under the shade of two
Squat Hawthorn trees
You said. Helpfully.
As we stood on the edge
Of a precipice,
I marvelled out loud at the depth
Of the chasm before us.
You noted, kindly,
That the ‘H’ in ‘chasm’ was silent.
It was your final utterance,
Save a suprised “Oh”
And a very long “AAAAH”.