Dense clouds of flighty midges muster,
Somewhere a hidden croak,
A swish of grass in gentle breeze,
The honking of the passing geese,
And weeping of the willow’s leaves,
A hint of distant smoke.

A heavy heat lies on the Fen,
A dark rich smell of earth,
Amongst the reeds the water flows,
In currents, eddies, that do not show,
Hidden by irises that golden grow,
She knows not fame or worth.

Old man heron might safely stand
The eel may safely swim
But stranger standing unawares
Lost in thought or saying prayers
May swiftly sink with no fanfare
And be dragged deep within.

Once in her arms there’s no escape,
She is a jealous wife,
She’ll hold you close in her embrace,
And pull you down without a trace,
Eternally before her face,
A watery afterlife.

I thought I’d step aside from the main narrative today and try some stanzas describing the Fen scenery. If I can, I’d like the Fen to become almost a character in the ballad, something I haven’t developed at all yet.
(20.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.
Wicken Lode1.JPG. (2026, April 26). Wikimedia Commons.