Feel the Fen Blow bey,
It rattles the bones
Through graves long forgotten,
In church yards of stone
Lazy old Easterly
Howls like a dog,
Then covers the dykes
In a blanket of fog
Reddens the hands
Travelled from foreign parts
Who harvest the land,
Picking artichoke hearts.
Gets up the tails
Of the long-legged hares,
That run for their lives
From the Gamekeeper’s glares
Swirls round the bench
And kisses the face
Of dear Molly Watkins,
At peace in her place
Brucks up the fruit trays
Stacked high the markets.
Makes pots goo a gutzer,
Snaps flowers in baskets
Snatches the bread
From the men eating dockey
Whilst sat on memorials,
Saddened with poppies
The sky’s blue as Woad dye
So stretch out your hand
And feel the Fen Blow, bey
For this is Fen Land
***