Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

Our washlands lie between the split river,
inland from Ely. Fields that bag up England's rain
for the safety of villages, for fat fenland caulies.
All summer the small birds feed till in September,
Inching, the flood slides over, swans endlessly dipping.

Now the waters shine taller
than the sky: fields glisten leadwhite, still as mercury.
A grass track slides under, fence posts stagger
a little way, appear gasping up the next bank;
the whole poised watermap tenses, sparks.

Reeds dab broad calligraphy across the waterface;
swan packs dot the script with silver. Willows bathe,
shaking greygreen feathers as they twist at the waist,
arms raised in shock at the lap of cold, each top limb
posting its pigeon shield, its angled cormorant.

Not yet under (the water progresses) shrub and tree
group on a soft horizon, composing themselves for the
flat stare of sheep. A straight line from Welches Dam
gives you the cathedral, poised on a green raft;
its singing once lay all the washlands hushed.

The hide has the sharp musk of new chipboard, the silence
of the meeting house. It is straight with us, the benches
gaunt, a third world railway carriage where we travel
beyond ourselves. Charts name the birds that scorn to see us,
the fields that fill and drain before us unashamed.

What lies in this bonehouse of light, under this radical lake? Something gleams in its crystal liberties, disregarding
in its baptism of green. Something of the skaters on the ice,
the ague-shaken children. The challenge to reach out
and take your land. The cold that keeps life living.