The lake
glistens in the morning sun.
Around its edge, the sheep run.
Its water shimmers in the gentle breeze.
At its edge there are fir trees.
In its watery depth, fish swim about -
Small fish mind, nothing as large as trout.
As the sun rises, the mountains reflect;
Which mountain is which is hard to detect.
High in the valley the fox hunters’
horns ring loud
Until, at last, a dead fox is found.
Soon the walkers are out in force,
Spreading out in the prickly gorse.
The in-experienced climbers are easily spotted,
A "Wainwright" in hand with an OFFICIAL route plotted.
The mountain road twists and turns
Dodging rocks, heather and ferns.
Below it lies an old tumble-down barn
And further still, a sparkling tarn.
Along the road a farm does stand
Guarding over all its land.
The shepherd goes to round up the sheep,
The baby lambs run round mum’s feet.
A tiny village nestled between the
rocks
With only one shop filled with stock.
It sells everything from chalk to cheese
The owner’s aim is to please.
The village pub is called the "Black Cock"
It sells many drinks, including hock.
Before they go on their way
The walkers go there at the end of the day.
