Cumberland Fell Runners

Daylight arrives slowly,
On these short and wintry days
But a solitary figure is out on high
Neath a falcons lofty gaze.

Ice, on frosty path and trod,
Crunches in mock resistance,
As lungs and legs cry out,
At his ascending persistence.

On and on he'll run,
Over summit great and small
Footsore over rock he darts,
Never dwelling on a fall.

For he's at one with his world,
All before him is crystal clear,
Day to day hum-drum left far behind,
On these mountain sides so sheer.

Reynard, a vision of arrogance,
Turns his hides from view,
His brush like some flaming torch
As daggers of light shine through.

But dark, dark clouds are closing in,
A thin wind begins to blow,
A mountains mood changes now,
With its sinister mask on show.

Our runner descends swiftly,
With fluency of mountain stream,
To the ringing in his ears,
Of a buzzards ghostly scream.

Semi darkness waltzes in,
With night time on his arm,
But the runner is down on valley floor,
Content and safe from harm.

To run the tops on these days,
Out alone on highest fell,
Is to fall unashamedly under,
Old Lakeland's wondrous spell.