Fenland Sketches

Ploughing deep furrows in the black wet earth
yields mummified branches of ancient trees.

Rivers run straight as the mythical career of a hero;
but old roads meander like comfortable lives.

No hills, nothing for houses to nestle in,
your every deed is seen by your neighbours' God.

This stark grandeur challenges even self-deception;
you glare back at the emptiness, or you run.

This busy air is fresh and bright,
rendering the water in the crossing dykes
as glittering spasms amongst sharp blue.

White clouds with the spirit
of ocean liners sprint above me,
while I, in my car, run this road

with no boxes alongside imprisoning streets,
no brick wall bigotry from some chattering suburb;
no metropolitan clutter, no town crowds, just distance.

The photography is here, but I can't catch it.
But I will; I'll learn to express my cheer
at this absence, this emptiness.

Cruising on the Nene,
knowing that,
in fifty years time,
with global warming,
I'd be sailing a shallow sea.

Incidentally,
anyone want to buy a house?
Beautiful garden
excellent for vegetables,
prospective fishery rights.