We set our sights on tramping up
fresh big hills for city-free thrills.
Burgeoning clouds spilling thick drops
dared us to Turn. Back. Now.
... We paid no heed ...
Mapless, capless, we traipsed up the land,
past the bleak farmhouse,
seeking the signs for the secret stile.
Into fields - cowed by heavy-lidded,
tail-swishing, grass-grazing cattle -
we crept respectfully through their home,
wanderers in their world.
Puffed and parched; rest sought,
breath caught, bellies filled.
The children scrambled upwards
climbing higher than the trees.
Perched amongst the droppings
and ferns, the littlun and I waited
- as they scaled the stony tip -
feeling on top of the world.
curly edged Brecon bracken kissing pine,
creamy sheep's cloud,
looks-pink-to-me Black Knapweed,
Fleeting fancies for our descent;
low slung clouds, sinking to brush the hills, shaping tales for our eyes only.
The pirate ship, flags unfurled,
narrowly missed the gorilla's gas
as the dancing girl dodged
Superman in classic flying pose.
Surprising us with their nature lust, they declared
"We should do this every weekend".
In a rainbow burst,
freedom was theirs.