We are the blacksmiths, forging routes on your anvil back,
hammering aspirations achieved at last,
quenching a dream cast
in your shadow.
We’re seamsters too, blunting our needles to thread your own.
Along your spine, we weave our ropes,
between precipitous sandstone vertebrae,
sewing and unsewing our parties
into your landscape.
We move too fast to ossify
beneath day’s unchanging sky,
but the light-play of dusk and twilight,
the dance of colours on clouds, crests and heather,
makes gendarme spectators of us;
and for a sunset we can see time in its passing,
the turning shades and tones a glimpse of what must be,
as our Anthropocene.