British Camp

An unimpeded sun can still not shift
the snow from British Camp; it lies pristine
upon the slopes we make our tracks between,
shading eyes from the thick and dazzling drifts
where diamonds appear to sparkle and dance.
After Giant’s Cave the summit is close,
the dogs chase shadows, perhaps they see ghosts
of ancient Romans gazing this expanse,
who must have cursed this freezing hilly air
and dreamed of a return to Southern warmth.
Worcestershire, Herefordshire lie below
it now, twelve counties can be spied from there.
Roman soldiers exposed to Northern storms
could see only a map of boundless snow.