A Damp Fen Morning

Rain Filled Skies And Tired Eyes


   A grey morning welcomes us on this day of worship, cries from the tall manor tree rookery ring out like those calling bells that fill church towers all over this garden of the east, while men of the land and ladies in fine silk drop coin from gloved hands in stone temples this bead maker once more enjoys a day at his flame.
   No ice does lay over the dark soil just the green young wild rape seed that self set in autumn mildness, rich green they stand with game birds walking their shallow paths and broken wet stubble rotting beneath their young leaves.
   Where is that winter we fear, the snows and freezing winds of the north that wrap these flat lands in white soft coat and form ice on dyke and river through every black night, all that shows this fresh year is the rains from the west, great storms that bully our coast and burst our rivers banks and still cold damp mornings such as this, we wait and watch those great open skies that rush over us, we wait.