Tag: poetry

Where is Freedom Born – Pete Cox

Where is Freedom Born – Pete Cox

Is freedom born in a fire burning a palace?

A Recipe – Kim Allen

A Recipe – Kim Allen

Before the counting’s done…

Six Miles – Leanne Moden

Six Miles – Leanne Moden

Six miles, again, we’ll go today,

for honour built on broken blades.

We’ll tame these meres; skate far and fast,

with hopes that winter, long may last.

For cold that creeps and freezes fen

brings out the Runners once again.

In tests of wit and skill and speed

on crystal lakes, still wreathed with weeds.

Contracted muscles, chests pulled tight,

like frightened birds, we take to flight.

Sinews screaming, taut like wire,

in every eye, a glint of fire.

On flooded fen, we carve our names

as brackish blood runs through our veins.

The lure of wealth may spur some forth –

we skate for love and all we’re worth.

This subtle smoothness, ice unspoiled,

a canvas stretched o’er sunken soil.

To skate the marsh is to be free:

These Fenmen do not run; they flee!’

Another Town – C J Mawganson

Another Town – C J Mawganson

What can be done

Is there ever a way

Covid Lamb – C J Mawganson

Covid Lamb – C J Mawganson

They said that he died, the old man from the flats

Fen Blow – C J Mawganson

Fen Blow – C J Mawganson

 

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

***

The Houseproud Husband To His Wife – Paula Monger

The Houseproud Husband To His Wife – Paula Monger

There are silverfish in the bath, my love…

The Three Bears – Garry and Paula Monger

The Three Bears – Garry and Paula Monger

An animal for which we care…

Seasickness – Leanne Moden

Seasickness – Leanne Moden

Here, there is clarity. A raw, persistent

truth – a cold disparity – hidden beneath

these tessellating fields. Fields stitched

by ditches to a muddy canvas. An after-

thought, a lost and lonely landmass.

Marshes marred by the harshness of

weather-worn trees. Each movement

of their aching limbs born of necessity.

That seasickness, which rises when

tracing that unaltered horizon, will

never fade. It is the price we pay to

come and stare into the eyes of gods,

to see ourselves, scratched and scattered

across unending skies and be reminded

just how much it mattered. The paling

moonlight dies, submerged and sinking,

but never fully sunk. No dampened way

of thinking, drunk on every part of these

wild and weary, sun-smeared fens. I’ll walk

each lonesome plough line, now as then.

Ghost Buses – Lorna Sugden

Ghost Buses – Lorna Sugden

The buses are running…

Tom’s Football Game – Cardinal Cox

Tom’s Football Game – Cardinal Cox

A figure stands in Walpole St. Peter’s churchyard…