The Fen Poem by John Rickell
The Fen
The fen, black, below the road,
Dykes wide and straight,
sink of thirteen counties,
draining fields of leeks
and kale, harvested
in January frost,
the ground hard and
as harsh the wind, from Ely's
lofty tower, chills the bones.
Today the sun is hot
open skies beguile as children
pedal wide horizons
beneath a cloudless sky,
fecund earth in all its glory
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4/23/2024 8:31:30 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Beneath a cloudless sky it seems life to be wonderful like this poem.