Water arises from the ground

Creating an abundance of life on the fen

Tiny germander speedwells and delicate fairy flacks decorate the grasses

Dragonflies and painted ladies dart across red sundews and butterwort

A gentle breeze takes the edge of the scorching heat

Playfully teasing to pluck us from the hilltops and whisk us away

Carrying us into the white, fluffy clouds in the sky

Tall, long grasses and moss surround us on the boardwalk 

You wouldn't be at fault for believing the ground was completely solid underneath 

The cors fen can still be navigated, if you know where to place your step

The ground springy and squishy beneath your feet

But be careful not to stay too far

Or you could join the ghost of Cors Goch 

The midwife that still wanders across the fen

Locals still catching glimmers of her lantern glow

Hidden in the tall grasses at the dead of night

Dail gwithlys yn gorweddyn wastad cyn culfachu y pry diam ddiffyn yn dyn yn ei afael.

Menyn y Waen ai deilen gludiog yn llawn diddordeb I’r ymwelwyr bach diniwed. 

Ddim syniad ä dyfodol byro fod yn bryd i’r ddaer.

As I move through the heather, what do I see? A bird, it’s a buzzard, some plants and a bee. The sounds all around me fill me with joy, the wind blowing wild and robin nearby.

Brushing of leaves

Birds tweeting along

Scent of moist greenery

Warmth of the sun

Warming my back.

Soft leaves brushing past, 

Past my bare ankle straps.

Many flowers and leaves,

Some scent of cucumber,

Others of medicine.

Surrounded by nature, 

Eye catching all is green.

The uneven ground beneath,

My feet struggle to follow. 

Spiky brush on my toes.

A path emerges, slithers like snakes

Through thick grass, the path.

Playing with the squishy, watery path and intrusive,

Thoughts fight to win.

Dipping a toe into the mud

Soft, cold and mushy!

Squishy wet moss,

Soft to the touch

And the fluffy feathery moss

Now resting upon the wooden bench.

Tranquility and belonging,

blossom feelings within.

The millstone telling tales, from a by gone era.

A little bumble bee buzzing

Bouncing around our feet,

‘shrooms shooting in its white glory,

Leaves of all textures

And clovers on my bare feet…

Lost in the spines,

Tossed to the spikes,

Survival within the bramble

Is the greatest gamble.

The stench of dung stings the tongue 

As ferns and vines and twisting mnds

Loom from all sides.

Digestion. Consumption. Torment. Beauty. Nature.

The Forest lives. Bark twists the faces.

A haiku:

Pinc, porffor, gwyrdd a gwyn

Colours rise up on the fen

A spring spectacle