Great Fen

Reeds to every horizon, gold-green and shoulder high. They move in long, slow waves whenever wind crosses them. One boardwalk threads through, grey planks raised on posts. It is patched in a dozen shades of timber. Mist lies low this early. It thins as the sun climbs. At a fork the reeds open onto a wide mere. Flat, silver, perfectly still. Across the water a watch hut stands on tall stilts, with a ladder and a railed viewing platform. A small red flag hangs limp from its pole. Old flood marks ring every post in pale and dark bands, climbing the wood. Further on, a row of lantern posts marches out into the reeds and simply stops. The last one leans. Nothing is taller than the hut for miles. Sky fills the rest, huge and white-blue.