Each year that comes the pedlar appears, limping down
through Borrowdale, a stumpy figure, somewhat indistinct,
his box of wares across his back,
tapping doors, farm to farm, pale eyes,
renewing faces, hoping for a sale.

In his box ribbons, laces, buttons, bobbins,
needles and pins, snuff from Kendal,
leads from Keswick,
salves for ringworm, charms and bracelets,
liquorice jars and camphor tins.

He appears the pedlar, a footfall on the turf,
sups at the cold beck, shields his pipe from the winds icy brush
at the pause on Riggside slack.

He clings fast to the world as best he may,
its reluctant warmth encompassed within his coat,
and as dark comes sets out his bed
in bracken and grass,
wraps paper lengths about his legs
and kips within the pass.

Through the long night hours he slumbers,
muffled from the wind,
and while the cold gnaws at bones,
dreams of hearths and well aired beds,
and the low live hum of farming folk,
at work in the dale steads.

Each year he appears
the pedlar, limping just a little,
aching from the rain, selling his wares
through Borrowdale,
and by this act each person knows,
somehow for sure, yet
somehow surprised that a year has passed
again.