FEN

Time seems to crawl in the fen, water meandering, seeping up between the stems of sedges and reeds. Years pass as roots, nourished by the mineral-rich marsh, drink languidly. Stalks gradually give way, softening and tangling themselves into the sludge. Cities and ideas come and go while the fen endures and, below, unhurried, the peatland enriches itself, engorged and alive, darkening with goodness. Into this patchwork a bird dives – dart-like! fast! – a frantic interruption. But this is a place more comfortable with waiting, as the evergreening earth brings forth its distilled bounty – its renewal – with immense patience.

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