‘The hoof-pocked meadows provide a complex poached habitat, sanctuary for nesting larks and pipits, whilst the flexible bills of snipe find easy pickings in the damp hollows. And all the while, remaining alert to the shadow of broad wings and the threat of oblivion in the unforgiving talons of the harrier’
A streak of green in our peripheral vision as we chase the speed limit. Oh, how important must we be, as to quicken headlong to the next destination. Feeding egos with connections, finding validation in the acceptance of acquaintance. All the while, viewing the world through tinted glass and the black empty mirrors of modernity.
But within the streak there is another place. An atemporal region, where the human voice still rarely pollutes, an anachronism within our own claustrophobic existence. This place is forever changing but has remained unchanged for centuries; a landscape where the ambiguity of time is revealed by a lapse into a stasis of pastoral perpetuity. Generations of willow, alder and oak wax and wane, decay and rejuvenate in incrementsof time incompatible with our frame of awareness. But the swaying reeds never change, browning with autumn’s touch, leaving a winter bounty in the unflayed feathers, before succumbing and rendering back to the muds. But soon enough, the urgency of spring will trigger the rampant thrust of green spears to once more penetrate the margins and low places, screening a new season of thronging carnal occupation behind their protective palisade.
Summer sees the return of small hardy cattle dotting the lush pasture, their breath entwining with the wreathing morning mists in an improvised dance of sultry humidity. Dexters and Belties tromping the same droves as once did the short-horns and duns, asthey meandered about the dykes and ditches. The hoof-pocked meadows provide a complex poached habitat, sanctuary for nesting larks and pipits, whilst the flexible bills of snipe find easy pickings in the damp hollows.
And all the while, remaining alert to the shadow of broad wings and the threat of oblivion in the unforgiving talons of the harrier. He wasn’t always called this by humans but to the small birds and mammals of the marsh his name is a constant: a visceral call on the wind, indelibly imprinted on the DNA of all who need to heed him.
Summer can also bring less welcome visitors but the inhabitants merely regard them with wary disdain. For, as the venerable Mr Ransome rather kindly described them, the hullabaloos pay little attention as they pass through within their bubbles of entitlement. Many other creatures inhabit this oasis, above and below the water, scurrying, swimming, crawling. But let them be revealed to the observant, in moments of wonderment that help forge bonds of understanding between our disparate realities. The idyll of this season soon passes and gives way to the descending honking flocks of winter. They come not to pollute the skies for an experience or to tick a list, but for life and death; to feed and recuperate, re-bond with the collective in an endless cycle of survival.
And through it all, winds the quaking river, feeding and nurturing, albeit clogged as it is now with the cholesterol of greed. It remains joyous and vital, an artery pumping new life into the quagmire, suturing all together in an unending cycle of rebirth.
There are times when the meadows become glass panes, reflecting the roiling grey clouds, regulating the rivers’ natural ebb and flow, restoring harmony. For those who care to peer in, these windows provide a view of how things have always been done, and should be a reminder that, ultimately, our pursuit of domination will leave us naked and supine, as we ourselves are reclaimed.
The Wahenhe, the river by the marsh: a complex pageant of life, unchanged and untamed. A place where, if you allow yourself to sit a while, magic and even time travel is possible for those who wish to undertake the journey.
Writing & Images Knight Heron, Langmere, Norfolk March 2026
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