The Storm Arrives

Winds Hammer The Fens


   After a night of rain and fen breeze most fen tigers were sitting awaiting the promised storm, not fooled by the early weather they knew better than us, reading the skies like great pages they saw the still would soon rage.
   This bead maker now sits watching the winds and rain tear the reed beds and sedge from shallow dyke while lifting loose countryside litter high into the air, those deep hand dug drains are filling and not a bird flies the black skies over the east. How right those wise old eel men and peat cutters were, beside their warm stoves they sit, another day owned by the weather they watch, no stinging rain will strike their weather torn faces this day, no punt will wander the rivers and deep waters this October morning nor thatchers reed will they cut.
   Now I see how wild this mythical world can be and why talk of webbed feet still ride those whispered tales told in inglenooks on dark winter nights.