Tiddy Mun of the Fen brooks(Ghostlights of the fens 1700s)

 Tiddy mun without a name
separate the water from the rain
Separate the stone from the mud
please let us know when it'll flood

Come ye out of those little pools
Bless our crops and wayward mules
Then pop back into the ponds of the bog
Where you nibble on reed and rotten log

Oh Tiddy Mun be the cure for what ails us
Let your ancient presence never fail us
You remind us one day we'll age and dampen
Thwart the mean ghost man with the lantern

Make our time longer indeed not shorter
So we can make amends for stealing your water
Guard our crop ol' Tiddy mun of the Fen
spin the deluge off, our farm steady friend

A symmetry off limits

 How you turn around to me
you boldly face me
words don't come to either of us
I wish I knew what you sought in me

Lost want curved and curling
from Bom dia lips
Your grace doesn't go overlooked
How you keep yourself precious

Then what need is there for words
When admiration is our reality
When you are gone relief drips
like sweat on the machine

A polished smile
On good morning lips
Your routine exposes your litheness
Your gentle balance unforgettable

There is no goodbye
Only reminders of your harmony
Of the eveness we may feel
our proximity forbidden

Dolls and empty roads

 My head is heavy so i lob it forward to drag the rest of my body.

The gutters of both sides of the road are full of dolls that look like me.

Is this my voodoo freeway, divine limbo in judgement imposed on me.

I continue forward no visible cars or people just the sounds of rattling dolls
and my own quiet footsteps.

The crossroads are empty up head as i come upon them I have no notion where to go.

I keep walking legs humming, brain an audience of voices on a lonely desolate road
of abandoned dolls.

Eihwaz Kenaz Fehu

 The rune for digging below.
Endurance, transformation, connection
To find the hidden water.
The creativity to use this water.

The Rune of illumination, knowledge, skill
Craftmanship and clarity.
To bring what has never existed into the light.
As if it was there from the start.

Abundance, manifestation and vital energy.
Effort bears rewards in many forms.
Each powerful and sustaining.

The ten heads of my past life

Ten heads, each holding a different life,
One of my faces on each 
Each with a small light inside it
Burning from eyes and mouth

 A candelabrum of memory
That transforms into the modern version of me
 A hydra of time
That finds a moment of presence inside me

 where every head carries its own era

It's own haunting surreal landscape and voice

One might know the Fen mud

another a dockside in Limehouse

A field growing somewhere in imagination

Lights are experiences burning inside it

Fenhound at Denver sluice(Ghostlight on the fens series) 1713

 A low thick rock wall followed the waterway flush
Smooth flat flowing water eventually out to the wash
Other side of the stone wall a trail between villages narrow but good
made up of stones and pebbles lined with guelder rose and dogwood

The tide could be felt there at the sluice the coast still thirty miles 
So villages near king's lynn got brackish water and thirsty smiles
That week before nightfall there was long calm warm afternoons
couples sat on the wall to enjoy last light before the pale moon

Two of these couples witnessed a huge dog hours before the storm
Matted thick furr, glowing eyes and ears that curled like horns
The experience left the couples terrorfied and sleepless that night
Causing hysteria in humble residents local now a source of fright

Parallel to the unease storms began coming up from the south
The fenhound sighting a bad omen of tragedy or ill health
The great ouse was absorbing storm rains sending floodwater forth 
Seven days from sighting sluice gates broke with incredible force

Lowland homesteads and habitations were completely flattened
Omen of the fenhound punishing both hedgedweller and aristocrat

“We were checking the sluice gates when a shadow moved across the embankment. It was vast, black, and low, with eyes like faint coals glimmering through the fog. It walked as if it had weight, but no sound came from its paws. The water hissed and rippled, though the wind was still. Some say it was the spirit of the fen itself, some say a dog of the damned.”

Vermuyden's fear of water

Cornelius visualized the lines he would cut across the Fens swamp
Like roads inside his mind, same ditches he cut in land so damp
Now he was cutting like a man obsessed into Welny deep and long
Toward the lower great Ouse where the silver eel belongs

Slowly the old Fens lands were being drained 
The peat was the fuel the canal a sacred vein
These ideas through his head minutes before sleep
As he slept the humid air rose from bog deep

Night tangled with thin lines of sweat making him shiver
Carving across his face like his new trench rivers
dampening his pillow soaking his dream
Like the Old bedford steam

Imagining himself descending from the overrig
Found himself in a golden afternoon on the dig
something clamped down on him and wrangled
he looked down a giant eel bit into his ankle

He woke, morning already through the tent
Supervised the dig with the drudges he sent
He stayed far from the water watching, feeling fearful
A whirl of a ripple on the surface he became careful

A long black shape reeled up in the water, bit a worker's face off
Vermuyden screamed the line of labourers jumped out of the trough
He ordered the grunts to reassemble his tent on higher ground
Cornelius never lost his fear of water, never again slept sound