Marshland

The Marshland In the middle of the fen where the soil is full of rotting foliage, roots of tree from the time the land was a forest, a dam where ducks swim and as is the way of ducks noisy in their chatter with each other, social bird with no musicality I mean have you ever heard of an opus titled: “When the ducks sing in Covent garden.” Yet they like it here and can spot a Cheney miles away and thus avoid getting water-boarded. We used to go there the farmer and we dug into wet soil square sized turfs which dried in the sun and in the fall we had carts full and primordial roots that burned brightly when snow fell outside