Lizards scatter with small stones

as he trips up the mountain road,

kalderimes are too bumpy now.

 

 

He's been here before

a thousand feet above nut town 

where crumbling churches 

send peels of God down 

to the sea. 

 

He's been here before.

 

'Are there cicadas?....  I don't hear them.'

 

 

Higher...

 

White scree falls recall…

sodden summers wrapped in mist.

Lakeland views packed away 

gifts for some other stay.

 

Cloud clutters the coast

 

..clueless..

 

until a strip of blue renews..

 

'Remember in Cornwall how we'd watch the clouds,

for clear sky and leave the caravan

to chase the sun?'

 

I do remember

 

He walks past our car, 

parked under the spread of an old walnut tree,

to the church of St John and stares

at Byzantine frescoes

of a dickless Jesus.

 

‘There's something missing’. He says.