Tydraw's Buckets

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.

 

The Basin

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