Introduction:
Evoking the spirit of Tennyson’s famous poem, The Brook and with an echo of the witches scene in Shakespeare’s Macbeth, just in time for the decision to be made over the fate of Biscathorpe in regards to the oil drilling proposals by Egdon Resources, on the 1st of November, 2021 at Brackenborough hotel in the Tennyson Suite, and the global warming summit, Cop26 which also gets a reference in the poem.
Lincolnshire poet Jane Air attended the Lincolnshire County Council planning meeting on the 1st November and was delighted that the oil drilling proposals were rejected.
Disclaimer : Am using my poetic license for the melting road.
Walking along the Viking Way trail
past the lake, through an iron gate
to where grave stones have no name
no date of death or tale be told
buried under stinging nettles
and ivy clinging to the rails
The cold stony faces of gargoyles
weather beaten over centuries old
look down on us and frown on us
From the gloomy outlook
and gothic heights
of the medieval church
Abandoned and deserted
lost in time, the door is locked
a place that time forgot
Its only claim to fame
in the valley of the bain
is in the Doomsday Book
where it has its name
Nearby Tennyson’s brook
is babbling and bubbling away to this day
The stream glistens and gleams
pristine and clean, tinkering along
to its own gentle song
Flowing over chalky boulders
and under bridges full of midges
And where flowering watercress
and towering irises reside
and native crayfish fight to survive
Ravens squawk and squabble amongst themselves
as if this land belongs to them and nobody else
A meadow of buttercups
and red clover runneth over
Divided by a melting road
glistening beneath our feet
Tarmac reverting back to tar, smelting
in the beat of smouldering heat
From the fiery cauldron in the sky
boiling up temperatures from on high
Higher and higher temperatures rise
never reaching the summit of lies
Bubble bubble oil is trouble
fires burn, flood waters double
Cows and calves take refuge
in the shade of the huge chestnut tree cast
As if nothing can disturb their munching of the grass
moving up and down the valley in their herd
at their own leisurely gentle pace they pass
And what is life
if one cannot have the time
to stop and stare
at the hare
leaping about in the field beyond
the strip of wild flowers ?
Or while away the hours walking along
the Viking Way
with hemlock dangling in the way
and soon the harvest of the hay
But this place, full of nature’s grace
cannot escape the curse and chaos of our weather
Nor will Tennyson’s brook
remain the same forever
For further along, it sings a different song
of our weather gone wrong
Now out of tune, its banks have broken
burst and ballooned
Its flow is stagnant and slow, swelling
and swirling sluggishly
around ancient trees up to their knees
half drowned, ungrounded, surrounded
Bubble bubble oil is trouble
fires burn, flood waters double.
