Beneath the dome of autumnal beech
amber hues and jasper green
tang-yellow leaves.
The sung blue-grey sky
and speckled shade
on the tender crisp-lined track.
Egyptian buff-brown
Vigorous and stout trunks
Lengthening skyward.
Stephanie
I love the crinkle-crankle's quirkiness, 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