I trudge the last steep reach of Wearyall:
at my feet puddles double as a county,
a map I cannot fathom.

Still Levels rising, horizon rain-close
where eels feed in easy streets
and sticklebacks the size of whales
might lek on village cricket pitches.


Another ‘52‘ poem, this time on last week’s theme of ‘weather’.

Scale as in scaling a hill, fish scales, scale of maps and plans … and a nod to the ubiquitous ‘area the size of Wales’ (and Father Ted, perhaps, ‘small … far away’; hard to resist).

Born and bred in the West Country (Wearyall Hill is close to Glastonbury Tor, looking over the Somerset Levels), now living near Worcester and the River Severn, the scale of inland flooding is almost mind-boggling, let alone storm damage to coastal areas of Britain and beyond.

Meanwhile, apparently California has a drought, Australia is still counting the cost of its heatwave / bush fires and central-northern America is frozen solid. Climate change – whether man made or not – is happening. We will have to cope with it’s capricious uncertainties.

Cameron’s ‘money is no object’ suggests that even Tory slashers now realise that infrastructure is vital so there is a tiny gleam of hope from all this. Perhaps we’ll invest in creating, building, mending instead of the wealthy becoming wealthier as everything else withers. Perhaps.

Here are some pictures of Upton Upon Severn at dusk last week. The Malvern Hills are in the distance in the first:


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