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

***