Flag Fen Peterborough Poem by John Rickell

This the land of squires and spires
stone and brick, slate, deep eaves and thatch
stubble fields with open gates and welcome.
Quarries yielding ore and stone, soon for
recreation, boats and fish on Sundays
Quiet lanes and motor ways, turbines
spinning in the wind, sixteen times a minute
beside the silver power station
chimneys of the Fletton brick works
clay old as man black smoke flowing east.
Silent witness to our past.

Wooden causeway, toil and timber
three thousand years buried deep
waiting to be found, Flag Fen, iris
floating on the lake, moor hens nesting
deep and safe in reeds for thatching roofs.
Confronted thus in awe at mans' invention
there to see the oak and thatch, Soay-sheep,
shedding wool obedient to the weavers' trade
around the smoking fire and curing ham.

The air was still, but the turbines
kept on turning, sixteen times a minute,
electric light where once was tallow's
sickly smell, which swamped the stink of sweat
Were they happy? Yes I'm sure, childrens' cries
barking dogs and herbs to harvest in the summer,
hedges for the winter, wood for the fire,
shawls to weave and boots to cobble.
Three thousand years! and here we stand,
stand in awe time and again to slip away
enhumbled that we with all we have and more
own part of them who shivered long ago
our genes as theirs, their hopes as ours.