Wild Wild Winds

Fen Winds Batter The East


   Clear blue skies light this April morning with sunshine strong and summer like filling the fenlands with smiles and thoughts of warm July days, yet those huge fen winds batter the land of marsh and drain, willow branches bend and dance over the water, touching the surface leaving tiny ripples like moving finger prints.
   That never ending rolling roar fills the air like some wild sea that will wrap around every cottage and rush through every hedgerow like a high tide unseen by eye but felt and heard, spring-cleaning the dark magical soil of this flat garden of Britain it wipes clean every fresh bud and shoot.
    This morning I return to my torch after a day of clay that I so enjoyed, pieces stand to dry on racks and ideas kick and punch to draw attention in my mind but wait they must. Maybe this evening I'll head to my wheel again to lift and pull that wet clay once more, an addiction that only cost time I've found, how lucky am I.