| Long Way
Ashness Bridge to Derwentwater’s edge –
the four of us in noisy green cagoules.
You lead us crablike from the streaming ridge –
push through bracken, down towards the queue
dripping on the jetty. When’s it due?
a voice says. It’s familiar. It is mine.
You won’t take the launch. You never do
but set off back along the path again.
I don’t turn to watch, or think to wave.
If you have any comments on this poem, Rachel Curzon would be pleased to hear them.