The autumn hues of this land
have long faded into winter,
which bites at ears and ruddy nose.
The landscape has become pastel,
a thousand shades of brown,
burrs of the muddy borough
shorn smooth of its sharpness,
smudged outlines of naked trees,
hibernating hedgerows,
three hundred-year-old farm stays,
crumbling blacksmiths, closed,
next to duckless pond,
old railway working pubs now holiday cottages;
like morning mirror I recognise it all in reflection.
This village moves on between visits,
Station Road, that now leads to defunct lines,
is quiet as rumbling bouncing machines
of agriculture rest in barn beds,
while the seeds of tomorrow's bread
lie patiently in frosting earth for sun
to wake them; some will not make it,
taken early by the shadow black raven
who sits on metal gate
till the time is right to swoop
with lavish swish of wing to swipe
poor seed's destiny afore its prime.
But the world is hid, today,
squirreled away from the dull shades
of a month’s winter,
from the sad trees, boughs bowed
to the wind and weak sun,
from green tartan patches turned brick red;
I remember walking those fields
when the summer of my youth was strong
and my heart was light blue
like the milky skies I wandered under.
I did not fear the winter then,
it was yet to draw me asunder.
But some things never change,
the accents draw out nostalgia,
like a bramble splinter from finger.
This land, beyond the flats and broads,
where stars hug the sky close like new lovers
and even twinkle in silent icy evenings,
where stereotypes prop up bars,
and youth ages with old responsibilities,
Yes this land will always be my home.
Docking is the village I grew up in. It is the highest point in north-west Norfolk, close to Kings Lynn, Hunstanton and Burnham Thorpe, the birthplace of Lord Nelson.
why not have a look: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Docking,_Norfolk
have long faded into winter,
which bites at ears and ruddy nose.
The landscape has become pastel,
a thousand shades of brown,
burrs of the muddy borough
shorn smooth of its sharpness,
smudged outlines of naked trees,
hibernating hedgerows,
three hundred-year-old farm stays,
crumbling blacksmiths, closed,
next to duckless pond,
old railway working pubs now holiday cottages;
like morning mirror I recognise it all in reflection.
This village moves on between visits,
Station Road, that now leads to defunct lines,
is quiet as rumbling bouncing machines
of agriculture rest in barn beds,
while the seeds of tomorrow's bread
lie patiently in frosting earth for sun
to wake them; some will not make it,
taken early by the shadow black raven
who sits on metal gate
till the time is right to swoop
with lavish swish of wing to swipe
poor seed's destiny afore its prime.
But the world is hid, today,
squirreled away from the dull shades
of a month’s winter,
from the sad trees, boughs bowed
to the wind and weak sun,
from green tartan patches turned brick red;
I remember walking those fields
when the summer of my youth was strong
and my heart was light blue
like the milky skies I wandered under.
I did not fear the winter then,
it was yet to draw me asunder.
But some things never change,
the accents draw out nostalgia,
like a bramble splinter from finger.
This land, beyond the flats and broads,
where stars hug the sky close like new lovers
and even twinkle in silent icy evenings,
where stereotypes prop up bars,
and youth ages with old responsibilities,
Yes this land will always be my home.
Docking is the village I grew up in. It is the highest point in north-west Norfolk, close to Kings Lynn, Hunstanton and Burnham Thorpe, the birthplace of Lord Nelson.
why not have a look: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Docking,_Norfolk
The old blacksmiths (now closed)
The Railway Pub (still open)
The duck pond, looking down Station Road (is quiet as rumbling bouncing machines
of agriculture rest in barn beds
of agriculture rest in barn beds
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