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Derek Webster

The high world with its busy
mysteries does not stop for
my grey clouds or greet me.
I am peripheral, one of life's
truants passing by.

My fens, flat as well-made beds,
confer little truths. Tractors
break up worlds in winter drizzle
and brood upon peas, beet, spring's
return and sun-drugged soil.

St Botolph ring sings my creed and
his children reprise the canon.
Fevered officials learn small habits,
levy stones and encrypt broken
divinity in new laptops.

Over my wolds, the sun juggles
shadows and stretches horizons
to infinity. Connoisseurs dig
Saxon hearths, map history's
kiss and record my daily psalms.

As usual the sea waits: it has
its own dark passings. I was well
timed to watch by these shores.
Their surf is braided to my life
and penetrates both joy and doubt.


Derek Webster.