Retreat

Wet-dry and smoke-damp, this paradox place where the pond-skaters rule over stillness I have crossed you, Great Fen, like a pagan God and the pacing becomes like an illness. Hung grey-grey-silk Brit monochrome sky over weeping-sore steeple-pocked inland and wandered beneath it, the coiled-tight lie of the land, these lanes that are England.