In the height of summer
I sat under the mighty beech
with a warm breeze
stroking the lush ferns
and dispensing light relief
from the walk up.
Sitting on the stone surrounding the fire
I remind myself
of the age of the place
and my inconsequential nature
that feeling you get
when you are pleased to be alive
and take no living thing for granted.
My Buxton friends say this is a place
for wild camping; I trust them for their word.
The bridge in need of repair as it falls into the stream
the derelict old pump outhouse deeper into the valley.
A reservoir as once was, a place to escape the bustle now.
These images are for sketches, I have only words.
I fell for this place, though didn’t make it to the peak,
for the next trip for sure.