Good friends with good boots

Rambling on forever

Up hill and down dale.

Campsite. Midnight. Zip

Opens. Torchlight. Quick smoke. Trip

Up over guy rope.

Hiker on footbridge

Wonders why two hundred more

Cars have thundered by.

Dark patches racing

Across bright fields under white

Clouds chased by the wind.

Mauve dawns sit gently

On still lochs and fade away

To blue light and grey.

His river has flowed

But his bird has flown: he’s shown

He’s an anglophone.