Andrew T. at Bole Hills

I turn to my right. He twists his neck upwards
To stare at the potent sun engulfed by softening cloud.
He stares and stares. As if waiting for the cloud to answer back.
I try to shine my light into his mind. To find his hermit logic.
He could be looking forward, for beyond his nose’s bridge,
Beneath his wispy chin sits Stannington -
Quiet, gentle, freckled with leaves of green and gold.
Robust concrete on ancient grasses.
And further from this valley lie the timeless Dales
That stretch their mighty hills beneath the sky to meet the godly grey and blue.

And yet he stares above, a knitted brow at cloud-strewn teal.
The sun is smoke-smothered, nuclear fusion
Bested by ignoble gases.
He squints, a child’s confusion. Perhaps it’s disappointment?
I follow his protruding gaze. The cloud that hides the sun is small.
A clump of touchless dark.

No sign of rain, I softly say. He ignores, narrows his eyes further.
A challenge? A threat? What is this cloud to him?

At last, by fate,
The sun in all its beauty
Peeks out in shyness from the grey globule’s rim.
The wispy wad now shuffles
To one side, so shall the God Solar blaze again,
Mighty and over all.
I turn back to him. His eyes now twinkle in the light.
They glisten with relief. The world is still as it was.
And yet I wonder
What was in his mind
When the light of power was held in gripless shroud,
The strongest beam subdued by faint and weightless darkness.