Damp Fenland Morning

Hodwell Beads And Empty Boxes


   A grey heron passes over my ponds on this damp April morning, a morning of dull skies and easy thoughts, a morning when small fen cottages stand out like tiny white steamers sailing the fen marshes, slow smoke rising from red brick chimney stacks while fen folk enjoy the signs of spring that most ignore.
   The river banks wrapped in early dew while ivy clad pumping stations stand idle their wind blown shells home to barn owl and summer swallow. The voices of past fen tigers whisper over reed beds and water meadow, great eel catchers and sedge cutters telling stories of better days when their world was lost to all but them, when huge marsh harrier hunted the wide open skies and clear waters were ruled by pike and eel, when summer winds burnt faces of peat cutters and and reed bails would travel the drains to waiting thatchers, those eyes still watch through the dew and mist on these dull damp mornings and those voices still whisper in ears.
   For me awaits a day at my torch, Hodwell beads to form in flames of blue and gold and fen colours for me to find, today is no real day of colours bright nor sharp loud design but one of natural beauty, those greens and browns that make our world so calm, shades to wear on every day.
 

 Empty boxes are left as this bead maker sorts his past in glass, beads from old are now asleep and packed away as new ideas fill his little place of magic, a new look is forming from the old and a welcome sign will soon be hung over his door, new friends will interest his mind and smiles will he hopes face his work once more.