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.