There are no maps to navigate
The smoky horizons of stark parishes
Or to grapple their Grendelian monsters,
Haunted as the sucking fens of infinity.
When clouds lift like a conjuror's trick,
To reveal the hard muscle of distant hills
Flexing in rising light,
Parishes flood with the visions of Hereward,
The English music of curlews,
The booming bitterns of Chaucer.
As black copse, farmstead and stout Norman church
Ride a sudden flurry of rain
The intricate mirage of summer moves downstream,
Great Ouse that nurtures foundered longships,
The funeral hatchments of eel-bitten Vikings,
Curling like a wide meandering fable
Into the susurrant channels
Of The Wash.
Robert James Berry
If you've any comments on this poem, Robert
James Berry would be pleased to hear from you.