Blue Skies And Sunshine
Huge wide blue skies look down on us this Easter Sunday, the sunshine pours through windows all over the fens while children hurry to find Easter eggs that await them. How different this spring filled weekend is to that of last week, no sleet or snow falling, no rains to flood the flat lands and no trace of those fen winds that have haunted us through the first few months of 2013, indeed this Sunday is the perfect picture of early summer.
Hedgerows are alive with bird song and the moans of growing buds that struggle to bloom, gardeners at last can get on their soil to drill and sow and families all over the east will travel to the coast for the first time with excited children who carry bucket and spade.
For this bead maker it's a normal day at my flame tho I wish it was a different story and this big kid was also off to watch the sea and walk the beaches and rook pools, maybe soon he will be but until then his mind will take him there and fill his head with the sounds and smells of those quiet coastal villages that line east Anglia.
My day will be split by a bike trip on fen lanes, a trip on which I will pass huge river willows and fishing heron feeding on roach and perch and for the first time this year I hope to feel the warm sun on my back as I travel those narrow drove roads that fen folk have walked for generations.
As I write church bells will be ringing all of Britain and services will be held in both hamlet and town, hymns will be sung beneath stone built arch and under the rainbow shadows of great windows stained. For me my Easter will be to enjoy what I see around me, no books of praise nor words of worship do I need to celebrate this spring occasion, the first day of summer will teach me lessons of nature as does every day I spend here in the countryside where I belong and to those who know this old bead hermit I wish you a very happy Easter and a very enjoyable day.
Sunday, 31 March 2013
Saturday, 23 March 2013
Snow Blizzards Hit The East
A Wonderful Spring Morning !
Talk of spring and fresh new leaf would look rather out of place on this March morning, the fens nestle low as wild winds bring snow blizzards to the east of England, daffodil bud sit with heads bowed as snow settles and every fen home lets out chimney smoke as old fen tigers sit in wonder as to where spring has gone.
Acres of rich farmland already lay under a fine sheet of snow and winds tear at every hedgerow that dare stand in it's way, no wide blue sky to place smiles upon faces nor the air full of bird song this morning, just the real raw hard fenland where no man or woman fears the cold, where life is hard and strange words roll from the tongue, where poacher and keeper both walk the moonlit droves and marshes hide a thousand tales.
This bead maker will work beside his kiln on this cold day, his eyes will miss nothing of the snow that falls and his little dragon will heat his barn until dusk, thoughts of those working the land and waters of the east will enter his mind and lady luck he will wish their way.
Talk of spring and fresh new leaf would look rather out of place on this March morning, the fens nestle low as wild winds bring snow blizzards to the east of England, daffodil bud sit with heads bowed as snow settles and every fen home lets out chimney smoke as old fen tigers sit in wonder as to where spring has gone.
Acres of rich farmland already lay under a fine sheet of snow and winds tear at every hedgerow that dare stand in it's way, no wide blue sky to place smiles upon faces nor the air full of bird song this morning, just the real raw hard fenland where no man or woman fears the cold, where life is hard and strange words roll from the tongue, where poacher and keeper both walk the moonlit droves and marshes hide a thousand tales.
This bead maker will work beside his kiln on this cold day, his eyes will miss nothing of the snow that falls and his little dragon will heat his barn until dusk, thoughts of those working the land and waters of the east will enter his mind and lady luck he will wish their way.
Friday, 22 March 2013
Wicked Winds Of The North
A Morning Of Gales
Those strong fen winds from the north arrived this morning, talking winds that carry fen spirits over the flat world of east Anglia, winds that arch the back of even the mighty oak and ash, winds that make every willow shimmer their dance over waters edge and turn the damp soils of winter into dry crust.
A morning when tea cups warm the hands of the men of the fens and weather beaten faces hide behind high collars and under hats of wool, a morning when reed and sedge beds roll like huge land seas, wave after wave whispering those spells that will rid this magical rich land of winter's end, natures broom that sweeps the remains of long cold months from the young fresh shoots that will arrive.
Winds beat every cottage and spoken words fight to reach our ears, bunches of hag stones rattle and knock as their thick rough twine starts to dry and moss pads fall from roof tile and slate like little cushions landing on paving stone.
A day at my flame await this bead hermit with winds to watch and rushing skies to follow, thoughts of wild magic will play with my mind and beads born on this day will I'm sure carry it on for a hundred years.
Those strong fen winds from the north arrived this morning, talking winds that carry fen spirits over the flat world of east Anglia, winds that arch the back of even the mighty oak and ash, winds that make every willow shimmer their dance over waters edge and turn the damp soils of winter into dry crust.
A morning when tea cups warm the hands of the men of the fens and weather beaten faces hide behind high collars and under hats of wool, a morning when reed and sedge beds roll like huge land seas, wave after wave whispering those spells that will rid this magical rich land of winter's end, natures broom that sweeps the remains of long cold months from the young fresh shoots that will arrive.
Winds beat every cottage and spoken words fight to reach our ears, bunches of hag stones rattle and knock as their thick rough twine starts to dry and moss pads fall from roof tile and slate like little cushions landing on paving stone.
A day at my flame await this bead hermit with winds to watch and rushing skies to follow, thoughts of wild magic will play with my mind and beads born on this day will I'm sure carry it on for a hundred years.
Wednesday, 20 March 2013
Grey Skies And Sleet Falling
What A Wonderful Morning
Big dark grey skies welcome us this March morning, a mixture of rain and sleet falling over the fens and that cold winter feel runs between Ash and Willow like a naughty child making sure everyone knows it's there.
No wonderful wide skies with theatre backdrop white clouds on this start to the day, no spring sunshine to tease us into thoughts of summer, just fine ice drops falling onto the dark soil and river banks, sleet that does slide without interruption down every reed until hitting the waters surface.
Oh winter why do you play these tricks on us, why not pass and let spring warm our back once more, your long cold months we lived and your snow we walk upon while others walked warmer roads and saw sunshine every day, is it not our turn to see buds bloom and leaf grow, never will we forget you nor speak ill of your coldness and again we will welcome you this year end as we do every year, just move on and say goodby for these next eight months, don't bully us more, just let us smile once again in early morning sun.
A sparrowhawk sits on the round timbers of garden fence watching while every small bird is gone, not one stays while this regal prince of the fens is hunting, his head rocks as his eyes flicker and scan every branch and shrub, the sleet hitting his wide back and bouncing to the ground, no food for him this morning, no painted faces to carry away, I wish him gone and my little friends safe once more.
With the white ice laying a fine carpet over the garden it is a warm working day ahead for this bead maker, my seat by the kiln calls and a flame that will burn and warm my thoughts awaits me, today I hope my aches will leave and my legs will belong once more to me, these last few days I've felt so old and slow but it will pass, it always does.
Big dark grey skies welcome us this March morning, a mixture of rain and sleet falling over the fens and that cold winter feel runs between Ash and Willow like a naughty child making sure everyone knows it's there.
No wonderful wide skies with theatre backdrop white clouds on this start to the day, no spring sunshine to tease us into thoughts of summer, just fine ice drops falling onto the dark soil and river banks, sleet that does slide without interruption down every reed until hitting the waters surface.
Oh winter why do you play these tricks on us, why not pass and let spring warm our back once more, your long cold months we lived and your snow we walk upon while others walked warmer roads and saw sunshine every day, is it not our turn to see buds bloom and leaf grow, never will we forget you nor speak ill of your coldness and again we will welcome you this year end as we do every year, just move on and say goodby for these next eight months, don't bully us more, just let us smile once again in early morning sun.
A sparrowhawk sits on the round timbers of garden fence watching while every small bird is gone, not one stays while this regal prince of the fens is hunting, his head rocks as his eyes flicker and scan every branch and shrub, the sleet hitting his wide back and bouncing to the ground, no food for him this morning, no painted faces to carry away, I wish him gone and my little friends safe once more.
With the white ice laying a fine carpet over the garden it is a warm working day ahead for this bead maker, my seat by the kiln calls and a flame that will burn and warm my thoughts awaits me, today I hope my aches will leave and my legs will belong once more to me, these last few days I've felt so old and slow but it will pass, it always does.
Friday, 15 March 2013
Early Rains Across The Fens
A Wet morning But One Full Of Life
With the rich fen soil damp from over night rains and the air riding on a gentle fen breeze most minds would be thinking spring is still far away let alone here, yet I sit here with early morning cuppa watching that special matinee that only nature can direct, one with no words nor leading actor but special effects that no computer would ever achieve.
My gang of painted faced bandits feed on the niger seed feeders while four black birds tread the wet grass hunting worm and all under the gaze of that little fat robin who seems to check every move they all make. The call of collar dove and wood pigeon wander through this quiet still morning, calls of love and attention haunting over the flat lands while the chatter of finches never settles as they gossip in lilac tree.
This morning I travel the fens for a few hours, camera in hand and eyes watching every hedgerow and thicket, a small rest for me to enjoy after a busy week, a chance to enjoy the world that I've missed this last month. Long hours and worried thoughts have made this hermit long to walk again, great drains and river banks of the east I'll explore, reed beds and willows I'll pass and wetland beauty will cross every path I stroll to catch my eye.
Bare winter trees with ivy clad trunks will greet me with a welcome wave in this morning breeze and crested grebe will whisper as they watch me pass their fishing grounds, such a different world to that I lead in my magical barn but one with which I walk hand in hand though the long seasons and one I would hate to lose.
With the rich fen soil damp from over night rains and the air riding on a gentle fen breeze most minds would be thinking spring is still far away let alone here, yet I sit here with early morning cuppa watching that special matinee that only nature can direct, one with no words nor leading actor but special effects that no computer would ever achieve.
My gang of painted faced bandits feed on the niger seed feeders while four black birds tread the wet grass hunting worm and all under the gaze of that little fat robin who seems to check every move they all make. The call of collar dove and wood pigeon wander through this quiet still morning, calls of love and attention haunting over the flat lands while the chatter of finches never settles as they gossip in lilac tree.
This morning I travel the fens for a few hours, camera in hand and eyes watching every hedgerow and thicket, a small rest for me to enjoy after a busy week, a chance to enjoy the world that I've missed this last month. Long hours and worried thoughts have made this hermit long to walk again, great drains and river banks of the east I'll explore, reed beds and willows I'll pass and wetland beauty will cross every path I stroll to catch my eye.
Bare winter trees with ivy clad trunks will greet me with a welcome wave in this morning breeze and crested grebe will whisper as they watch me pass their fishing grounds, such a different world to that I lead in my magical barn but one with which I walk hand in hand though the long seasons and one I would hate to lose.
Sunday, 10 March 2013
Rain And Dark Skies On This Mothers Day
Spring Makes Us Wait
Oh what would I give to hand my mother a gift on this special day, to tell her I love her and see her smile, just one minute that's all I'd ask, just one minute. To ask where I go, how I head forward and to hear her voice so calm and warm would I know turn this big man into a small kid once again. To all out there who have their mum to spoil and love today, make it last every second of this special Sunday and every day to come.
After a week of thinking spring was upon us and the first sunshine of the year warming our backs we now enjoy yet another cold wet weekend, no use to man or beast. Once more gardens all over the east will be too wet to work and log piles and coal bunkers are once more pillaged by red faced fen tigers weather beaten by a long winter.
Hot porridge and toast is taken on this cold damp Sunday morning by those thinking of early morning cuppa sitting on patio's of stone in summers early sun, today they watch through windows as rain and sleet fall over the dark soil and even the odd flake of snow dances down towards the ground.
No summer dresses and hats head to church and chapel on this day of worship just winter coat and scarf pass through those great timber doors hung on pillars of stone.
My plan of garden work will wait another day and to my torch I will head, a warm day beside my kiln with glass to melt and beads to form and as I work my eyes will watch a thousand times the wet world outside through old glass pane with webs of fine silk thread in every corner.
Memories of Sunday mornings will flood my mind, that child helping his grandad in wet garden will appear, his black wellington boots and torn winter coat to keep him warm while dung was dug in and bonfire would smoulder for half the day and every quarter those church bells would chime making him look up towards that tall spire topped with a golden weather cock.
Oh what would I give to hand my mother a gift on this special day, to tell her I love her and see her smile, just one minute that's all I'd ask, just one minute. To ask where I go, how I head forward and to hear her voice so calm and warm would I know turn this big man into a small kid once again. To all out there who have their mum to spoil and love today, make it last every second of this special Sunday and every day to come.
After a week of thinking spring was upon us and the first sunshine of the year warming our backs we now enjoy yet another cold wet weekend, no use to man or beast. Once more gardens all over the east will be too wet to work and log piles and coal bunkers are once more pillaged by red faced fen tigers weather beaten by a long winter.
Hot porridge and toast is taken on this cold damp Sunday morning by those thinking of early morning cuppa sitting on patio's of stone in summers early sun, today they watch through windows as rain and sleet fall over the dark soil and even the odd flake of snow dances down towards the ground.
No summer dresses and hats head to church and chapel on this day of worship just winter coat and scarf pass through those great timber doors hung on pillars of stone.
My plan of garden work will wait another day and to my torch I will head, a warm day beside my kiln with glass to melt and beads to form and as I work my eyes will watch a thousand times the wet world outside through old glass pane with webs of fine silk thread in every corner.
Memories of Sunday mornings will flood my mind, that child helping his grandad in wet garden will appear, his black wellington boots and torn winter coat to keep him warm while dung was dug in and bonfire would smoulder for half the day and every quarter those church bells would chime making him look up towards that tall spire topped with a golden weather cock.
Wednesday, 6 March 2013
Early Mist
Damp Coat For The Flat Lands
Willows drip with early fen mist this March morning, a quiet still start to the day with only the sound of four calling swan arrows passing over head, loud cries and beating wings I hear, those magnificent powerful giants of nature heading for crops of fresh green shoot and rich dark fen soil on which to glean.
The mist curls around every cottage like a fine damp cloak around shoulders of stone and brick, my barn sits under conifer like a Victorian gent standing in shadows waiting for the smog to lift, a grey morning opens this bead makers day.
The cobbled path sits wet and cold with tiny rock pools nestled between every smooth pebble, edge of fine green moss softens straight line and crowds of snowdrop bow their heads to each who passes along this road of stone.
Spring life starts to appear here in the flat lands of the east with winter barley turning this dark rich land green and reed and sedge waking every river bank, soon the eel will move and great Zander will hunt the deep drains once more in sun lit waters. The winds are drying the land and every hedgerow holds a million buds, the great change of spring now starts and too my thoughts of summer.
Willows drip with early fen mist this March morning, a quiet still start to the day with only the sound of four calling swan arrows passing over head, loud cries and beating wings I hear, those magnificent powerful giants of nature heading for crops of fresh green shoot and rich dark fen soil on which to glean.
The mist curls around every cottage like a fine damp cloak around shoulders of stone and brick, my barn sits under conifer like a Victorian gent standing in shadows waiting for the smog to lift, a grey morning opens this bead makers day.
The cobbled path sits wet and cold with tiny rock pools nestled between every smooth pebble, edge of fine green moss softens straight line and crowds of snowdrop bow their heads to each who passes along this road of stone.
Spring life starts to appear here in the flat lands of the east with winter barley turning this dark rich land green and reed and sedge waking every river bank, soon the eel will move and great Zander will hunt the deep drains once more in sun lit waters. The winds are drying the land and every hedgerow holds a million buds, the great change of spring now starts and too my thoughts of summer.
Monday, 4 March 2013
The Month As Passed
We Made It !
February 2013 will always stick in my mind, that month will never be banished from my memory, since my life as a bead maker started I've never faced such a long hard struggle for 28 days, the seat in which I work never seemed to cool and my flame was there alongside me every hour. Sleep was not important and hard to find, just work and worry seemed to live that month, that four weeks walking on the edge of failure when we just had to succeed, when every day I longed for a sale and held my breath, when questions of our future turned in my head and answers frightened me.
Now at last it's over and we made it through that cold second month, we can now smile again but only after I thank those who encouraged us and those who were there for us, not many close friends share this bead hermit's world but those who do are special, they understand why I fight so hard to live this simple life, they know I ask for nothing more than to live here making my beads in this little space I call home.
I'm a simple village boy with no special education, I love the nature around me and I love learning the magic my flame teaches me, yes I wish the road I walk was sometimes an even one where no rut would trip me nor tree lay across my path, but my life would die away on such long plain roads where thousands of others travel, I'm here such a short time and waste it I won't, I've seen lives taken so early from those who never had time to enjoy and I'll fight a hundred fights to live this one life I have the way I wish, so even those months like February 2013 that lay around the next bend wont stop me, they will hurt me and tire me, they may even frighten me once more but I'll get through them with that flame of magic I adore every day and I'll carry on loving the beads I make.
February 2013 will always stick in my mind, that month will never be banished from my memory, since my life as a bead maker started I've never faced such a long hard struggle for 28 days, the seat in which I work never seemed to cool and my flame was there alongside me every hour. Sleep was not important and hard to find, just work and worry seemed to live that month, that four weeks walking on the edge of failure when we just had to succeed, when every day I longed for a sale and held my breath, when questions of our future turned in my head and answers frightened me.
Now at last it's over and we made it through that cold second month, we can now smile again but only after I thank those who encouraged us and those who were there for us, not many close friends share this bead hermit's world but those who do are special, they understand why I fight so hard to live this simple life, they know I ask for nothing more than to live here making my beads in this little space I call home.
I'm a simple village boy with no special education, I love the nature around me and I love learning the magic my flame teaches me, yes I wish the road I walk was sometimes an even one where no rut would trip me nor tree lay across my path, but my life would die away on such long plain roads where thousands of others travel, I'm here such a short time and waste it I won't, I've seen lives taken so early from those who never had time to enjoy and I'll fight a hundred fights to live this one life I have the way I wish, so even those months like February 2013 that lay around the next bend wont stop me, they will hurt me and tire me, they may even frighten me once more but I'll get through them with that flame of magic I adore every day and I'll carry on loving the beads I make.
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