The Secrets of Orford.

Rushes - it's the sound when cool wind whips through them  
and my body, compiled of earth and spit and dust responds  
by soaring,  
setting sail above sunken ships  
in silt and flat and flow.  
Warblers peel grass from vine  
by rivers filled with weeds.  
The manmade hills protect the castle,  
one of stone that exposes my spirit to yearning,  
a longing longer than I have the will to stretch my arms,  
it calms, sat upon a mound of my choosing.
I can think of worse places to flee, to walk  
these fields as shoes brim over with mud,  
to admire the Ness, as another world  
where ghosts roam free and tales are spun by witches and wildmen long-sunk -  
ears and eyes and imagination pool over, full of delicious all-feeling  
and then, of course,  
there, in the centre of this village's soul,
is Pump Street.  
A place stocked with bounty,  
storm-fairer's retreat, homeowner's hideaway, a nomad's quiet cave.  
A luxury  
for alive sense.