The Lakes



The lake glistens in the morning sun.

Around its edge, the sheep run.

Its water shimmers in the gentle breeze.

At its edge there are fir trees.

In its watery depth, fish swim about -

Small fish mind, nothing as large as trout.

As the sun rises, the mountains reflect;

Which mountain is which is hard to detect.


High in the valley the fox hunters’ horns ring loud

Until, at last, a dead fox is found.

Soon the walkers are out in force,

Spreading out in the prickly gorse.

The in-experienced climbers are easily spotted,

A "Wainwright" in hand with an OFFICIAL route plotted.


The mountain road twists and turns

Dodging rocks, heather and ferns.

Below it lies an old tumble-down barn

And further still, a sparkling tarn.

Along the road a farm does stand

Guarding over all its land.

The shepherd goes to round up the sheep,

The baby lambs run round mum’s feet.


A tiny village nestled between the rocks

With only one shop filled with stock.

It sells everything from chalk to cheese

The owner’s aim is to please.

The village pub is called the "Black Cock"

It sells many drinks, including hock.

Before they go on their way

The walkers go there at the end of the day.


By Kate Fallows, aged 12˝

(written on or about 12th April 1985)


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