Fen

In Fields still ploughed by the motioning moon
We walk on planks of tumbled oak back to the end of the world, racing
Dark, galloping in before the frost
And the skies that just keep on giving
Answers to questions ever hailed
Of rain and ghostly tides
And echoes of dead seabirds
Once heard by the crouching moon mad sniggler
On the salt soaked sod of his grassy ditches.
I have fallen in love with this place.
Coasted along its currents and found it to be
The last place. The last, newest, ancient point
Scooped out, re-shaped by pummelled hands and water,
Water, running through holes of mottled light
Like we are Gods or something greater.
For he has salt from the tears of mermaids on his seaside snacks.
And he invents a future here from drift wood, foraged steel, cargoes
Of spiralled shells and yet
He wears the weather well.
As scattered islands erupt dark fires
Of mulch and vapour hangs above the pools he stands
And shouts the thrashing winds to give us what he will.