Viewing ice-age formations
Up they go, on cables that ghost
the mountain’s profile. Huge buckets
menacing the sky like fun-cars
juddering Trecco Bay’s Water
Chute. At a thousand feet they shunt
towards the Basin, lush with fern,
and down its ancient rim they spew
slag not day-trippers’ candyfloss.
When the sun’s out, shadows scumble
faces on rock, scree and deltas
of spoil: Lawrence, bearded; Buddha,
eyes shut; the boy Dylan, smoking.
One day I showed them to a girl
I knew. She saw different faces.