Blencathra. From the East, her summit stretches like a grin.
A rictus in cold stone, wind-riven.
Sharpening her edges, she crosses the dark screes.
The four winds have screamed in her mouth.
She has known the madness of horses,
She would like to kill you.
And Skiddaw. In mist-sodden silence,
Humped and massive, she sleeps on, adrift. Oblivious mother,
Deaf to her crazy child.
Daylight shreds her veils.
Where sheep graze her smooth brow, she seems almost to turn,
And as though still dreaming, lift them into cloud.
|Camera:||Panasonic Lumix DMC-GH3 |
|Recording media:||JPEG (digital)|
|Date Taken:||1 May 2013 - 9:50 AM|
|Lens Max Aperture:||f/5.8|
|Exposure Mode:||Aperture-priority AE|
|Flash:||Off, Did not fire|