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.
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