I was standing on the top of Scout Scar.
It was winter and the light was fading
though the sun was warm behind my back.
All around the snow picked out
the pink tops of the mountains –
and I thought about your open hand
and your finger tips
that first time.
It’s summer and I’m here again.
The tops of the fells are cut-outs in the sky –
and I have thought about your curled hand,
ever since then. I am unbearably sad,
but I think I can understand,
why you closed it.