the path is crawling

flying ants animate the tarmac
like a quivering carpet
my skin is crawling
we suck in air across the reservoir
and return drops to dried spillways
a moor crossed by Heathcliff once
in imagined stories
now brings signs in japanese
a fell runner and two women ask
'are you the big one?'
and we reply, 'yes, can you tell?'
'by the size of your packs and the
weather worn faces
challenge of length against a desire to linger

stomping to a deadline today
7pm
we get a sprint on from top withins
not wuthering heights the Bronte Society
have the need to point out
we descend
our friend ascends in a red car
to both arrive at the gate
together -
she brings treats of kendal mint cake and deep heat
yorkshire puddings with the day's toll
unfold

a room frozen in the year I was born
net curtains, no room with a view