Fen Blow

The London Magazine - - IAIN TWIDDY -

It looked like stub­ble smoke blur­ring the end of the cause­way, a rich and thrash­ing brown blast­ing the hedgerows and trees, scat­ter­ing crows, rolling the golden top­soil out to sea. There was its spit and blus­ter, driv­ing closer, the whoosh of the un­der­cur­rent that so wrenched and shook that a frag­ment, like a hand­ful of seed, would come back: We are not wor­thy to gather up the crumbs un­der Thy ta­ble. The scale of that thought – hawk­ing – and rip­ping the vi­sion that what was given would re­main; noth­ing to pre­vent it lay­ing waste then, or flar­ing back now, over me­mory’s bare ex­panse, and tear­ing its wealth away.

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