Making Mountains

(The child is father to the man)

In a cold Bradford bedroom on a winter’s morning
I lie half awake as the day is dawning.
Eiderdown pulled tight up to my chin
legs forming a mountain, me within.

Imagination runs riot on that winter’s morn
lying in bed so snug and warm.
I see polar bears sliding down the slope,
chasing skiers, who have no hope.

My heroes in comics and books I’ve read
cluster around me on my bed.
Biggles and Bader, Rupert Bear.
Dick Barton, Just William, all are there.

Now, eighty years on, in another bed
I still make mountains in my head.
I have summited real ones in my time
but imaginary ones are the best to climb.

I raise my left foot for the Matterhorn,
then both, and an Alpine ridge is born.
Adding music from my mobile phone
the  mountains dance for me alone.

Such simple pleasures work for me
linking child and adult, all for free!

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