Flag Fen Cambridgeshire UK

Land of squires and spires
stone and brick, slate, deep eaves and thatch,  
stubble fields with open gates and welcome.    
quarries yielding ore and stone, soon for    
recreation, boats and fish on Sundays.    
Quiet lanes and motor ways, turbines    
spinning in the wind, sixteen times a minute    
beside the silver power station.    
Three tall chimneys of the Fletton works  
Making bricks for generatons.  
Clay, old as man, black smoke flowing east.    
  
Silent witness to our past.  
The fen buuried deep three thousand years    
waiting to be found, iris  floating on the lake,  
moor hens nesting, deep safe in reeds for thatching
confronted thus in awe at mans' invention  
here to see  oak and thatch, Soay-sheep,    
shedding wool,obedient to the weavers' trade    
around the smoking fire and curing ham.    
    
The air was still, but the turbines    
kept on turning, sixteen times a minute,    
electric  light where once was tallow's    
sickly smell, which swamped the stink of sweat    
Were they happy ? Yes I'm sure, childrens' cries    
barking dogs and herbs to harvest in the summer,    
hedges for the winter, wood for the fire,    
shawls to weave and boots to cobble.    
Three thousand years and here we stand,    
stand in awe time and again to slip away    
enhumbled  that we, with all we have ( and more )    
own part of them who shivered long ago    
our genes as theirs, their hopes as ours.