Streaking steel across the fell,
Wire-caging wild boulders,
Gluing bridges over precipices,
Marker-painting dangerous edges.
Tools and nails on the shoulder
Of the mountain fence the sky. The hill
We played on! Like a builder's merchants now.
Once we scrambled teetering cliffs somehow,
Vibram soles an inch from hell.
Parks are safer now we're older
But who fidgets over precipices
In our place? There are no badges
Fit for 'scenic trails'. It grows much colder
On the mountain, the hot sweat of skill
Has all gone. Like a DIY store now.
Who needs mountain-factories anyhow?
Snowdon an office landscape? Go to hell.
Authorities should be much bolder;
Put a gadget at fell-entrances
That locks a gate on grockles*, bodges
Holes in tourist's heels. Hold a
Guard on the mountain: "Who may ascend the hill
Of the Lord?", He only who is pure, now.
*Derogatory term for fair-weather walkers.