Poem

A Hymn to Lincolnshire

I am a part of all that I have met…*

The Romans knew its charm; this county-time-forgot
Is peaceful, green and vast. No motorway disfigures it
But scattered farms and villages with ancient names

Hoard memories of its past. Somewhere, it’s said,
King John mislaid the treasures of the Crown -
Sucked down to fenland grave, near Thorpe or Ford or Bye.

Runways score the ground; some overgrown seem sadly
Haunted by their wartime planes, some throb with massive
Sound of aircraft of today that train, protect or wait alert

For hostile threats. Vapours trail the blue, fields below
Stretch flatly out of view, washed with yellow rape
And splashed with poppy’s scarlet blood-like stain.

So hills surprise, delight - the gentle rise of Wolds
Where Tennyson was born and grew in lyric inspiration,
Or steep Lincoln’s city heights, where perched in majesty

Cathedral spires reach joyfully for the sky. Nearby,
Pine trees cluster in a soothing spa, and quiet shops
Line avenues suspended in an earlier, elegant time.

[Deep in these woods, a kinema with muralled walls
Shows current films and half way through, a pianist
Appears to play nostalgic tunes of nineties musicals.]

Rivers wind east through sleepy towns as bracing winds
And endless sands enclose the coastal side. There’s
Castles, stately homes - a Uni - and cottages of stone.

A sweep of sea and sky and earth, rich with alluvial soil,
Creates this place. Here crops grow strong, and pastures feed
The herds and all this spacious beauty feeds the soul.


* Ulysses, Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Jan Spooner
Sleaford, UK

Five homes in three years so relieved to land in Lincs. 3 children no longer need remuneration so finished full-time teaching, completed an OU degree [graduated 2008], travelled to interesting places, edited a Writer's Group book for charity. Catching up on books.

On Facebook so waste lots of time...

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