Flag Fen Poem by Keith Shorrocks Johnson

That there are witches who foretell and riddles enough
Is not in question - but death-kissed lips mouth silence
Even as truths and enigmas clasp and bind -
The inextricable will not yield to spasms and spurs
All headway idle with a felled and break-neck steed.

Then as the oracle echoed and the shrine ran quiet
I pressed forward with a script - a shard - a token
There is no ordeal now that would be too unkind
For I have lived a lifetime knowing nothing or less
Suffering all and being alone and at the gates
To the waters' under world realms and here
In that marshland of old where swords are cast
Beckoning betimes in rising from the peat-stained flood
To arm the surface, vouchsafe me one meeting
To let me greet my lost father face-to-face.

Point out the causeway, follow the ancient track
Where, as the flames enveloped and the water rose
I sought him and would have borne him shoulder high
Amid the staves and spears of our perfidious kinsmen
In the thick of fighting for those that we both love:
Would that I had saved him and that he was at my back
The cloak for my wanderings and howling tempests
A man still young and fair - my brother or my son in fealty
He it was who half-prayed or half-ordered me to life

To live this sentence and make good these sentences
Wherefore must the gods and times be piteous
That my father died knowing not he had a son
And that this son still seeks him to shoulder him
Carrying him free from the dark pools and the burning
Holding close the blade that has risen from the depths
Once beckoning to our kin and held aloft among the ruins
Foretelling scions, lineage and heritage survives.

At my dread and hands the priestess ceased to tremor
Silence itself the prophesy and charm foregone
So I began in tears: ‘No ordeal can now dismay me
For I have seen the fire sweep quay and standing
And know now that all are lost, the place consumed
Our enemies taking all they cannot end for good.
And I must turn and leave the young paternal king
Set him down gently in marshes' reddened skies
For the raiders have broken the stock from the fold
Women from their refuge and fear from the beleaguered
The thatch kindled and knives become the hunter'.

There is no manner in which I can retrace my steps
This going back is an undertaking beyond my strength
Holding the future, I cannot prevail against the past
There is a woman driven out and mute who bears me
And I must own the promise as she becomes a slave.

As the fenland darkens to the misted setting sun
Few remain of my company and there we gather
Risen from the hides where once we snared fowl
Watching the burnt piers and causeways flare and fall
To turn through the ring of dark water for the forest
Away from the weapon, token and silver depths
The garlanded maids bound for solstice sacrifice.

Still love and honour are my eternal covenant
That I could have stayed the hands of our tormentors
Or stemmed your wounds and never set you down.

For you I have grown strong, there is a band now
Of rebel warriors, captives, exiles at my command
Moving by rising moonlight on rafts of reeds and adzed oaks
Our skills honed by taking game and snaring wild fowl
And there the water village, its dogs and pigs making to sleep
Its women at the cooking pot, singing lullabies to infants
The children laughing as the old men net their fish.
Beneath the water are the sacred steels, the gifted gold
The sacrifice of metal and the bound both beautiful and base
So I cup my hands and rinse my eyes from holy springs
And catch reflection where I see you bend and smile:
We are at home now and all is well in lapping broads
That settle such straight levels linking every shore.

Balked of the raid's burning, rapine and revenge
I gently turn and slip you free beneath the mere.