Page 29



    These Ancient Lands

I walked along the river's edge

With Mistley at my back

The rising sun behind me

Lit up the land ahead


As it climbed it cast its spell

Across these ancient lands

Turned the cold grey light of dawn

To colour and to clarity


Distant woods that once were cast

In dull and sombre tones

Appearing now both proud and tall

In colours deep and bold


The land itself a patchwork

Of yellows, browns and greens

Shaking off the dark of night

To face the bright new day


From ages past these lands have shaped

The people who have lived here

The farmers and the artisans

And those who worked the sea


Man arrogantly seems to think

It’s he who forms the land

But look a bit more closely

And you’ll see the land shapes him


Cut and carved by fire and ice

Through aeons now long past

Nature’s work continues on

- The land is never finished.



        Blowing Eggs

In the springtime of my years

We lived a rural life.

Fields to run through

Trees to climb

And hedges to explore.


My parents had

A herd of goats

At the foot of Bulbarrow Hill.

Grass for the goats

Fresh milk for us

Who could ask for more?


The patterns and the seasons

Of a natural, country life

Went on all around us

In a rhythm

Still unchanging

From many years long gone.


We sought out nesting birds

And took for our collection

Just one egg.

And piercing with a pin

At each end

We blew the innards out.


What was left was just a shell.

Attractive, yes

And colourful.

But hiding that

Within was nothing

But just emptiness.


And so, as I take stock

Of the balance of my life

I get once more to thinking

How the circle has now turned.

No longer young and agile

As I used to be.


And looking from the outside

My life appears to be

Just like those eggs

I used to blow.

Attractive, yes

And colourful.


But hiding that

Within is nothing

– But just emptiness.