The Lake District

From the banister I can see you,

Cough and blast rainbows

27 summers press against the powder room windows

On returning eyes are learning the language of your wrists

You twist them towards the chandeliers and say 'who will be my witness?'

On a beaded rug on Jerusalem Hill watching the trawlers roll in

Let's start at the beginning, the drunk shouts who your tailor on the preference

Of a power failure slashing out its darkness

The steeple riggers round the spire scramble

For holy work lights on great hooks hanging

You straighten your quiff and mimic a stiff

The jury's back and it's a crushing blow

To those who wish you ill and woe

You are the Lake District

You don't need to speak

Writes in the air and chalk

Like sub titles walk across a foreign film screen

From the landing I can hear your hay bale laughter singing

It breaks the white horse hearts, of all those assembling

To be an ornament that sparkles

It's clear those here would kill

But there's nowhere to hide if you become a city on the hill

On a beated road on Jerusalem hill, watching the trollops roll in

Let's start at the beginning, in a dingy parlour by lanterns swinging

But the ancient caverns of your eyes, welling

The tale of Russian head scarf, landing

On your collar bone from your blouse, protruding

You tighten your belt so it's closer felt

The jury's back and it's a crushing blow

For those who wish your ill and wall

You are the Lake District

Marry me

In a registry

Like a foreign film scene

Let others publish our thoughts

Take my hand and we will waltz

Below the cathedral volts

Spinning like a foreign film reel