On The Way To Ely Poem by John Rickell

Three hundred and sixty degree sky
cold winds from the continent
all roads leading nowhere,
so it seems this stormy afternoon,
standing on the roadside verge
leaning on the wind and bitter rain
jealous of my presence on my way to Ely.

A landscape of lettuce, sprouts and leeks
sinking below the road as water drains away
through ‘Sixteen Foot’ and’ Hundred Foot’
onward to the Wash and shrieking gulls.
The road high above the land; ditches on each side,
waiting for the careless at each bend,
sharp angles as though the road
taken by surprise swerved as now you do
to avoid a watery grave.

Flat, all is flat, October-grey above
brown rich earth, salads for the cities,
meagre living for the tenants
picking sprouts for market,
no matter what the weather.