16 Foot Drain

You walk the roof of the world here.


Only the clouds are higher

And they are not permanent.

Trees are too distant for the wind to reach

And mountains hide below the horizon.

The wind labours through reed

As though they were the final barrier.

Houses and farms cling like crustations

To the black hull of the earth.

Here, you must walk with yourself,

Or share the spirits of forgotten ages



Edward Storey [www.literarynorfolk.co.uk/fens.htm]   Keep It Analogue