One of my main worries with Brexit was the unity of Europe
After 2 WW wars maybe the Trump fiasco with Zelenskyy will bond us together
A poem from my book
MY ANCESTRAL HOME THE FENS
PREPARING THE FEN DRAINS FOR WINTER FLOODS
Mowers and cutters flail in rage
along the dykes, the leams and drains;
they’re cutting sedges, grass and rushes,
buntings and warblers look on in vain.
Dragonflies flicker in the sun,
wings beating fast, invisibly,
darting fast from reed to reed,
where Mallard ducks have also been.
With banks and cradges manicured,
voles and fish can now be seen;
channels are cleared for the winter rains
where once their hideaway had been.
Swans freely swim in shallows clear –
more open space for them to graze;
Mallards become the hunter’s quarry
flighting into open waterways.
Forty-foots* and main drains
in the distance touch a cloud,
pools reflect the hunter’s moon,
wildfowlers’ guns ring loud.
Now nowhere for the mouse to hide
when the owl comes out to feed;
cover gone, they are his quarry
to sustain his famished need.
Heron, pike and otter waiting,
hunting for their midday meal,
fish their prey, if they can find it;
some will catch and some will steal.
At last the drains and dykes are clear,
prepared for rains and winter’s snow,
waters pass through pumps and locks,
then out to sea they flow.
*‘forty-foots’: many early drains were cut by hand to various widths measured in feet. The hundred-foot and forty-foot and have retained those names.
Sounds of the fens Aug 6 BBC Sounds RADIO 4
Read this poem of mine
FOOTPRINTS IN THE FEN
Over a Fenland lifetime I have left my footprints on many bridleways and footpaths used by drainers, drovers, workers and ramblers; along dykes, drains and rivers.
On riverbank, by gates* and droves,
washes, marsh and mere,
by clough and cradge*, field and fen,
humans wander without fear.
Paths are etched in Fenland soil,
lines trodden from the past,
human footprints left in clay,
moulded heirlooms set in cast.
Prints embedded in the soil,
steps in time for all to see,
buried spirits long bygone,
from other souls preceding me.
I now tread these paths of old,
ancient highways from the past,
day to day in light and dark
my steps, like theirs, will last.
Eulogies of mankind’s past
mingle in the bridleway,
adding to forgotten years,
joining in to have their say.
They form our present and our past,
footprints in the march of time,
veins of life from yesteryear,
steps in life that we all climb.
Bridle-ways and tracks and paths,
walkways, steppingstones and stiles,
coming to and from somewhere,
running on for yards and miles.
Tracks of time beneath our feet
lead us to some unknown end,
winding to and from at pace,
a new beginning round each bend.
Memories kindled with each step,
thoughts left behind without a trace,
blend into the Fenland soils,
human spirits entwined like lace.
Their next of kin will follow on
where others stepped before,
to walk the bridle-way of life –
each footprint adding more.
*‘cradge’ is a Fenland term for a small bank built to keep water out.
*‘clough’ is a flood gate.
*a ‘gate’ is a road or way.mm
MY BIRTHDAY MOON. MARCH – Lenten Moon
March can greet us fair or foul;
The Lenten Moon leaves us in awe,
Alerts us that winds will change, as
Rooks in nests begin to caw.
Full Moon tonight
December – Oak Moon
The oak has shed its summer veil
Though last year’s memories linger still,
The Old Moon will return again,
Its rebirth is the good Lord’s will. #moon #fens #Countryside #skywatch #nighthawk #nightskies
OCTOBER – Hunters’ Moon
Potatoes lifted, stored, and safe
From winter frosts that soon will numb;
Harvest supper – we sing with praise
That season’s end brings rest, for some. rexslyinthefens.com
