Gabled rooftops loom,

half consumed in shadows

that sleep as thick as night.

Gleaming whites and yellows

push back the dark blankets,

from the artificial light.

The lamp posts

emanate into the deep blue

distance of this summer and

echoed on.

 

Feet walk to shatter the small

flirts of silence, as tourists,

leisure staff, and the public house crowds,

roam the avenues of this small Lakeland town.

 

The bells toll closely by -

A steeple tower serenade and

beacon to God in this faithful locale.

Silhouetted now, against black

mountain backdrops,

like a charcoal sketch,

seemingly foreboding.

 

The mesmerised trees are stilled by the voices.

A girl cries to a friend,

with her Liverpudlian accent:

"You don't know me. Nobody does."

She seemed so out of touch,

a heartbroken ‘scouser’,

learning lessons in love.

And as for wind on that fine evening,

There was none whatsoever.