Accustomed to walk to top of the fell,
With rucksack, my only cross to bear,
Weaved in and out of crags so pure,
Overhead passing music to my ears,
Whilst serenade from the Lark arising,
Carpets of imagined flowers in unseen bud,
Hide for now, to await their day soon,
When Fritillary will fly to fill this sweet place.
Thank you on high for all this,
Its Friday, Oh so good!