This morning the low sun cast long shadows on the road to Coveney. The farm vehicles were busy churning up the heavy clay soil and making new tracks along the lane. My road bike with limited tyre tread added to the precarious nature of the journey. It is a beautiful time of the year in the Fenland.
There’s not a hill in all the view,
Save that a forked 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 nought to spare.