To Weatherlam the pageantry ascend
As coloured masts that roll against the surf
And Ian Holmes, his title to defend
Is working hard to subjugate the earth
There's Pudsey's sash and Dark Peak's moorland hues
With Calder Valley's red and white as well
The Sheffield orienteers in studded shoes
Cross swords with Borrowdale's men of fell
The fleet of foot now leave him in their wake
Through peaty hag and rocky crag they fly
He reaches summit cairn with ground to make
Then heads for where the earth surrends to sky
A shadow briefly cast against the hill
Then hawk to prey, he plunges for the kill
His feet could crush the fragile stones to sand
So barely strokes the granite as he goes
Not yielding to the gradient's demand
Finds shortest route as does the water's flows
So effortlessly rhythmic, legato
The jagged, jutting shards of rock eschewed
The others stop and stumble, staccato
While he descends in faultless solitude
The twists and tufts capitulate to track
So skims the straight, the victory in sight
While vests that led still labour further back
Their leaden feet, the line they etched their plight
How fitting that this great race Coniston
Should once again be won by this old man!
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