Slate Scum

Slate Scum

(A true story)

There are certain snags
With crags.
A two and a half thousand foot trek
Above sea,
From Buttermere landings
To Honister Pass.

Up rainy rocky,
Past the disparately flocky,
My companion,
Not so keen on
Sheer drops,
But ploughed his
Furrow bravely,
Past desperate
Watery falls,
Without stops.

Furrowed brows allowed
In misty mountain views, as
We abused a slate mine fault
In the instructions and
Laid bare
Our misguided optimism,
For the shortness
Of this first leg.

For an inspirational leg-up,
At the top of,
We spied a slate structure
Of café proportions.
Proper.
Perfect.

But,
As we neared
It reared it’s head
Made of massive disappointment.
This nirvana, here’s
Nothing but
The mountaineers’
Club hut.
(Fuck)
We took the fresh-faced
Advice given,
By the weather-beat and driven
And hacked on,
Hacked off,
Up the slate path.

Then!
But a brace of minutes
Past that hollow house,
Upon quarried steps,
Of windy quarrels,
In a kiddies hand,
For all to see,
(For me,
It was surely done)
An inscription, clear and
Current as the falling water:

“No
Tory
Scum”

I smiled
And walked on.