The shores of Windermere-LowMillerground.
I lived there nearly five years and loved
the way the sun painted Langdale’s peaks with fire.
The way the lake held it’s breath at night.
The way the night-boats crawled on her to fish
for arctic char, like lice with lanterns lit.
The way, on moonless nights the dark became
almost a weight, that pressed against your face.
The hooting of the owls-little and shriek.
The trees budding in the beam beneath
riots of ramsons and wood anemone.
The beck tumbling to the old stone bridge
like a story from a country myth.
All of this was grist, and ground it was!