Scafell
walking a few yards
you breathe like an illegal
who’s crossed the border.
I am ahead while you are far
behind. There are no rest stops
on this rocky path to the summit,
no hedgerows to distract
our lack of common interests
or silences broken up with erms
and uhs. You wear a jacket
of rain and I nudge you ahead with tuts.
At the top, there is nothing to say
but what a view. We are at opposite
ends of the plateau with only similar
rocks bringing us closer. At the car
park, I see your reflection, thirty years gone,
ghosting the car window.
