Skylarks keep watch above the Roman road;

paragliders gather over Mam Tor.

My leg drags, boulders batter boots;

too many hours indoors. The choice I made.

Stumbling down treacherous rocks, stiff knee,

beneath Peveril’s dark ramparts. Tougher

companions debate the Romano-Britons,

and whether they fled the Anglo-Saxons.

If so, where they did go? Along this ridge,

trekking under cloaks, against wind and rain? 

Below Win Hill lies glistening Ladybower.

A cross marks Edale, Glossop, Sheffield, Hope.