John Clare (1793-1864)

Fenland Poet.
There's not a hill in all the view,
Save that a forkèd cloud or two
Upon the verge of distance lies
And into mountains cheats the eyes.
And as to trees, the willows wear
Lopped heads as high as bushes are;
Some taller things the distance shrouds,
That may be trees or stacks or clouds,
Or may be nothing; still they wear
A semblance where there's naught to spare.


Edward Storey ...

Fenland Poet ..

(Who now lives in Wales) ..

You walk the roof of the world here.
Only the clouds are higher
And they are not permanent.
Trees are too distant for the wind to reach
And mountains hide below the horizon.
The wind labours through reed
As though they were the final barrier.
Houses and farms cling like crustations
To the black hull of the earth.
Here, you must walk with yourself,
Or share the spirits of forgotten ages.
...