Musings of a Septuagenarian

                               The Lake District

Water, water everywhere, enough to make you blink
with awe and wonder.
It earns its name – born and shaped through years of ice and rain.

Drawn in as always, when on bike or foot, by senses sharp.
A beckoning feast,
I soon submit to all the natural pleasure they impart.

I hear it first – the rush of brook cascading down the beck;
it stirs my heart.
A sound that delves primeval mind for memories lurking deep.

I see it soon – around the bend it grinds the stones so smooth
they almost shine.
The water spits and sparks as on its downward path it falls.

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On Dollywaggon Pike I count the lakes and tarns I see:
they number nine.
And in the distance to the west through haze, I see the sea.

I touch it now – a chill-thrill through my fingers, up my arms
and to my heart.
It sends a shiver up my tingling spine towards my brain.

At last I drink! So pure and sweet upon my lips and tongue –
it tastes divine.
No wine or beer could match its power to quench a thirst so deep.

I end my walk along the stream that runs to Patterdale:
the sun now shines.
Since first I trod these paths in sixty-two not much has changed.

So water water everywhere – it makes me stop to think
of cost and worth;
the things we surely need in life, we often value least.

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