View of the Fens

From Bluntisham's pit,
Little London,
I climbed.
Actually I ambled,
Squinting in spring sunlight.
Sharp air in lungs,
and cooling,
I bumbled up,
to the Heath's heady heights,
and fresh air delights.

Views of open farmland.
Orchards of dark twisted
military tree trunks.
Tall gravel pit sheds,
level with my feet.

Millennium wood,
copse I think.
Naked Silver Birches,
Young Hornbeams
bustling, rustling, paper leaves,
and,
bejewelled Hazel catkins,
Silkily swaying tassels,
corkscrew willows,
golden crinkles
threading through,
Brightest blue.
Dot
dot,
pussy willow,
puffs.

Sunlight on a mad March day,
Strobes through hedge trees
Highlights the winter wheat,
and soil furrows,
The water towers,
all sharp and neat.

A plume of smoke crosses the land below,
A veiled backdrop,
to the layers of trees
orange and red tinged foliage
blue-greys, and khakis,
in tight,
shallow,
layers.

A red tractor rumbles past,
and the bird scarer fires,
a sudden
blast.