He's in his element, finding his stride

for every two of hers, beating the boot-worn

path to England's roof. She gave her word

to go along this once, to climb her mountain,

but hardly warms to the "hard pulse of walking",

the pace with which they poach their bird's eye view.

Surely this unexpected tarn will win

the town girl round, this startled blink of blue

from sleeping green. Surely she'll love heath.

But she's short sighted, short legged, short of breath

and when at dusk they round the clouded peak

his heart drops. Her empty gaze brings back

that reason she once gave for falling for

and still obliging him. Because he's there.