We're climbing to Back Tor. Midsummer, but the black-brown peat
is sodden underfoot, unsteady. The light's behind us.
Clouds grey-swatched and speeding cancel out the view ahead.
Your eyes are on the map, converting three to two dimensions
as white-tipped drops hit plastic at forty-five degrees,
translating rising ground to contour, an ochre smear of water
as the ford. It's proof we're where we are.
I'm moving on towards the Tor, gritstone slabbed and glossy,
geology upturned. I scramble to the trig, a ship afloat
the oozing channels of the moor. I've got a bird's eye view of racing skies,
Whin Hill, the Coach and Horses ghostly no the western ridge.
Down below you measure out the millimetres, count paces forward,
thumb navigator's beads as if in prayer. We're where we are.
I long to take you on the glittering path across the moor to Lost Lad,
lose our bearings, risk the rain and kiss you.