They wave their tiny heads.
We walk long trodden paths.
My infant footprints more your size now.
I imagine we used to rest here.
You naming the trees and hills.
I standing precariously on trig point.
The wind battling me for the peak.
They scattered you down, glen-side.
You overlook the brook on flat tamed ground.
You're bored and cramped by inner city tourists.
They have days out on accessible moorland.
You should be here, on highest moor top.
The four foot marble pillar, your testament.
You orchestrating the elements.
People on pilgrimages to your point.
I only have other peoples memories.
I invent one here for you and me.
We are sat together, Grandpa and Grandson.
Appreciating the frozen bite on our nose tips.
Tom Peel
Feedback appreciated
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