The Fens

Snipe and Curlew are skating on the mist they sing of the water that sky-water which sways to their songs. Flat is this land with no coastal margins, here I am the peak of a mountain my coated form darkly winged with strange desires, an ardor compelled to rain down upon these wandering streams, to babble and pour in the Wash is my pleasure. Osprey skim between the worlds as they plow the brume and drizzle. Silver trout dangle in the air hooked by the wringing and the wet, the taloned and the dunking beak. You gandering Grebs where are you gone? O yes, you are swimming a soaking river betwixt the two poles of this sodden world, you wade and paddle, dip with a breezy ease - with dauntless sweeps you divide the oceans.