A poem at Lake District

Herdwicks are Lake District’s local sheeps

They tend to become carpets under thy feet

Waterproof wool given at birth

Must be great for covering cobbled hearths

Unless thou art trees or footpaths

Moss or fallen leaves would cover thus

Nature knows how trails looks best

In rusty crumbling blades of flesh

From trees that bundles against the cold

Green and growing where shadows fold

These trees are tall hardly evergreen

Bald branches even have a better dream

Of bearing butterflies drying their wings

Than hope for a mane photosynthesising

So then thy may pray for a chance

Fairer than bearing leaves in present tense

That there need not even be the sun

Just let not raindrops begin to dance

If it is not too greedy to ask

That thy may also compose an epic by dusk

Perhaps those sheep might live or

Colours of autumn would be in store

If thy pray in fruition

Facing the great, temple of abomination