It always snows when the camping group goes to Yell.
The weather was too bad for walking, so we went to Breckon beach instead.
On the loss of my walking stick, after some 8 years. I left it standing in the sand at Breckon beach, Yell.
I can't remember exactly
when we first met.
Some eight years past,
In a hikers' shop in
the south of France.
You caught my eye!
Tall and proud above the rest.
Your slender lines, belying sinew
and strength. Our time together now,
is gone forever, the tide will not renew;
but please remember, I chose you.
My faithful companion!
Far above the clouds we have roamed.
Over rock, ice and snow.
Sometimes I carried you,
more often I relied on you.
Recount with me the peaks!
Triumphant, sur la Breche de Roland,
With Spain and France taken in one step,
We basked in solar radiation,
Striking rock stratification.
Then much later,
negotiating the peatbog,
reviewing the storm-clad horizon
WE planted firm, pounding the length of Shetland.
Fethaland, Fair Isle, but no fair-weather friend!
No-gadget friend, we did not care!
Whether it was snow or wind whine.
Together, all was ever fair.
But what folly passes in a moment's careless thought?
Breckon's sand knows our point.
Distracted, there I left you.
I turned my back, I did not hear your call.
Advance the relentless wave, to steal you, my friend.
Now, the ocean carries you under the stars.
What you two shall see, I will never!
Journey well together.
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Happily, this stick has now been returned, having been washed up again.