Its quiet economy and hidden strength,
No need for buttresses, for inner stress
Holds tight the subtle, undulating length.
From East to West, it’s perfectly aligned,
So morning sunlight warms the sheltered side,
Fruit ripening along espaliered lines,
Resisting sea-winds, carried by the tides.
Slangemuur the Dutch men called it, engineers,
Who drained the marshland, freed alluvial soil,
That rich, dense blackness, springing with green spears,
Of wheat and barley, from their earthy toil.
Strict calculations laboured to create,
The Crinkle-Crankle’s seeming-natural shape.
Slangemuur*– snakewall.
Fiona Clark