Recently, one of our leading members has gained the Lincolnshire Poet Laureate award. Her winning entry is below.
Congratulations to Maureen Sutton:
Shaped by Sound
The sod beneath my feet has absorbed
the plough-man’s tread; boots softened
by creak and bend, one leg always higher.
His clicking tongue called commands:
‘Whoa, turn’, furrows run deep in fenlands.
The weight of horses’ shoes indented clay.
Harrow and plough have cut through earth
sparked limestone. Ridge and furrow
have written their own psalms.
Bird-song: crow, cuckoo, peewit, sky-lark,
each composed a chorus for sunrise
ceaselessly calling through changing seasons.
Invisible winds, breezes, storms, howling gales
lifted and shifted top-soil, sculptured willow,
hawthorn, hedges, oak, and ash to a sacred grove
defining enclosure, boundaries, ‘right of way.’
Ancient towers and steeples have absorbed
the prayers of my ancestors. I hear them in my
mind’s ear, clear as village church bells.
Dykes and ditches diverted water-courses, pushed
back the sea, reclaimed the land where green
mists still rise. All flow with their own rhythm
like migrant geese leaving and returning.
This is my county. This is Lincolnshire.
Maureen Sutton
March 2015
Congratulations to Maureen Sutton:
Shaped by Sound
The sod beneath my feet has absorbed
the plough-man’s tread; boots softened
by creak and bend, one leg always higher.
His clicking tongue called commands:
‘Whoa, turn’, furrows run deep in fenlands.
The weight of horses’ shoes indented clay.
Harrow and plough have cut through earth
sparked limestone. Ridge and furrow
have written their own psalms.
Bird-song: crow, cuckoo, peewit, sky-lark,
each composed a chorus for sunrise
ceaselessly calling through changing seasons.
Invisible winds, breezes, storms, howling gales
lifted and shifted top-soil, sculptured willow,
hawthorn, hedges, oak, and ash to a sacred grove
defining enclosure, boundaries, ‘right of way.’
Ancient towers and steeples have absorbed
the prayers of my ancestors. I hear them in my
mind’s ear, clear as village church bells.
Dykes and ditches diverted water-courses, pushed
back the sea, reclaimed the land where green
mists still rise. All flow with their own rhythm
like migrant geese leaving and returning.
This is my county. This is Lincolnshire.
Maureen Sutton
March 2015
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