You stand on the edge with your wife,
your balding head a wholesome colour
in the November sunshine. You are
taking a picture of Wolf Fell,
air-fuddled in the distance.
Here is the order in which these things shall be lost;
your remaining hair, the photograph, you, your wife,
this prominence, Wolf Fell, the air, the sunshine.
Copyright David Borrott. Reproduced by permission of the poet.