Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2011

The Somerset Levels

by John Keenan

I see you in this landscape everywhere:
in sunken moors where water stands for weeks
unable to drain away, like old hurts;
in coppiced willows, wounded in winter,
clinging on in ditches until, suddenly,
they spring back, a hundred fresh, green shoots;
or at sunset, as a will o the wisp,
flitting from rhyne to rhyne purple, gold, pink;
and once the lowing mists are shoo-ed away,
in these strong rivers, Tone and Parrett,
who, without the help of gradient,
driven by their own sweet will,
rush headlong towards the wide horizon,
through flat fields, flooding recklessly.

Added: 18.04.2011

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