Winter's Tear

   Yuletide chimes and plays of nativity have now passed and winter's tear will soon reach the great magical lands of the marsh. Fen tigers will once more behold her freezing breath that casts white coats of ice upon the dark soil, coal black soil, those acres of jet carpet that feed so many will lay warm beneath awaiting springs arrival.
   Great water birds still fly the cold wide skies as reed beds of the East sleep in the shallow waters that quench the thirst of ancient Willows and the woodpeckers that rule the apple orchards still feed on the grasses that lay beneath those aged grey barked trees, home of worm and grub alike.
   Now the years end is upon us we remember those seasons passed, bright fresh spring mornings with late frosts steaming in the sun, long summer days when wheat and barley danced in fen breeze while natures theatre gave yet another award winning performance and those bonfire filled autumn evenings as nights drew in and mole catchers homes were warmed by bog oak and peat, once more we welcome the fresh winter snows to clean away the old and ready these flat lands for the new.
 

Morning Of Souls

   Winter tree lines wear no jewellery this morning, the mighty Oak and Ash stand naked of leaf and the early winter winds clear the last autumn dust from their bark.
   The fen chill settles in sheets of fine haunting mist that stand above that rich black soil and rises like walking grey souls from river and dyke where banks of dew covered sedge and reed dance their morning jig. Could Dickens make up such a mystic atmosphere where mole catcher and waterman wake at dawn in dark fenland cottage with damp floors of stone and stove that slept the night with amber glow from peat and bog oak, maybe only the magic of this mysterious land of the marsh can do such things and will continue to do so long after his pages are gone from our world.
   As the months of ice and snow draw closer and the tigers of the fen face their hard season, a season when natures larder bares no salads but only peppered herb and festive game to fill their stomach, there sits a change in the flatlands, a strange quiet presence, maybe the spirit of winter settles upon the garden of the east, her bitter cold breath still to appear.