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Poetry

Marsh Walking

The lake is green today.
The sweeping north wind is cold to touch. […]

Marsh Walking

The lake is green today.
The sweeping north wind is cold to touch.
A scattering of moor hens sit bobbing and ruffled.
A wind swept flock of lap wings fly high, they open their rounded wings and the sun catches iridescent white feathers.

The reed beds sway and rustle their fine purple brown heads catches every bit of wind.
We pass through in silent step and feel the very heart of the marsh moving through us.

Hawthorns grow in abundance strong and thorny, laden with blood red haws.
A tiny wren sits, pert with tail cocked, she flies, this mighty fearsome bird, with her piercing trilling song.

A storm crow fly over her rasping alarm call breaks the atmosphere.
We turn away from the lake and head homeward bound.
St Mary`s Church sits on the edge of quietness and solitude.

Fiona Spirals 1991 changed 2011