On a bright morning, when
sun is dew drinking,
see her make her way along the hedge;
plucking hawthorn buds to shake
the yellowhammer from its rest;
gathering clotted wool that tangles
in the spine of blackthorn.
She winds the spiders' threads,
sends them spinning...
There is a pulsing in the deep
grain. I lay my cheek to cold
abrasion, feel the crystal rub of it,
filling my palm, heavy with time.
It takes my warmth, takes flesh
from bone. Greedy, it worms
inward, carrying a wind that cuts
and cries, like a bird soaring
across glaciers, looking...
In the grey light of a fenland winter
The scouring wind peels back
The peat, blows away
Reed fragments, leaves
Tumbled sand and silt.
The fens drop inch by inch
Into the past, falling into fields
Poplar belted, where in summer canopies
The golden oriole whistled.
But now, limbs bare,
Trees punctuate tired stubbles,