A mouldy lemon tinge about this sky,
shades smudged between daffodil and tin, shot
with hints of duck-egg. Grimaces as I run by
say rather you than me, an admiration I know well.
A half-laugh, like the half-weather rolling in –
a slash of rain, spit of hail, snowline on Win Hill.
No point in slowing down at Stanage Pole.
Although the flagstones level a few yards
you press on, pump the blood to toe and heel.
You’re praying it won’t pour. When horizontal raindrops
whip your eyes, you’re finished, vision just a blink
and sting. Better when you can lift your gaze each step,
take in the shades of lead above Mam Tor,
the peaty tumble of subsiding sun,
the Long Causeway’s bend and slant to evening glower.