My lady climbed a mountain,
Pen-y-Fan by name,
from Storey Arms she started,
rising path to tame;
she thought she would be lonely,
there was quite a crowd,
like her, with one ambition,
stand above the cloud;
she marched across the moorland,
double bent by wind,
until she reached the summit.
resting there she grinned:
with sense of her achievement,
stood where ice and snow
were left from passing Winter,
viewed the world below;
once moment passed for photos,
faced the downward ice,
which meant she had to scramble,
falling’s never nice;
returned she thus to Brecon,
staying there a spell
with mountain climbing story,
one I’m proud to tell!
————
Words: Martin Perry
Image: Source
