Harvest Time in the Fens: Saint Michael's Church, Chesterton

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Harvest Time in the Fens

St. Michael’s Church, Chesterton

A calendar knows little of a day,
Of any day; its arbitrary squares
Mark seasons as they amble on their way
From holy Advent ‘til the harvest fairs,

When summer’s crops, all red and gold and blue,
Along with piglets, ducks, some well-fed hens,
Are carted squeaking, squealing, creaking to
Saint Michael’s fields in the Anglian fens.

Old Father William lifts a pint (no less!)
With farmers selling cows and chicks and corn,
For he is merry too, and quick to bless
The laboring marsh-folk on this autumn morn.

Earth, sky, and air mark seasons as they fall,
And soon comes Martinmas, joyfully, for all.


Chesterton, in ancient Huntingdonshire (only those who know not God claim that Hunts is but a division of Cambridgeshire), is the home of my de Beauville / Beauville / Beville / Bevil ancestors.

St. Michael’s Church was built ca. 1295 and contains several memorials to the Bevilles and the tomb of William Beville, +1487. I do not know if there was ever any bit of land designated as “Saint Michael’s Fields”; I wrote that in for the sake of an autumn fair.

Harvest Time in the Fens

January 2013
Mack Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Harvest Time in the Fens

St. Michael’s Church, Chesterton

 

A calendar knows little of a day,

Of any day; its arbitrary squares

Mark seasons as they amble on their way

From holy Advent ‘til the harvest fairs,

 

When summer’s crops, all red and gold and blue,

Along with piglets, ducks, some well-fed hens,

Are carted squeaking, squealing, creaking to

Saint Michael’s fields in the Anglian fens.

 

Old Father William lifts a pint (no less!)

With farmers selling cows and chicks and corn,

For he is merry too, and quick to bless

The laboring marsh-folk on this autumn morn.

 

Earth, sky, and air mark seasons as they fall,

And now comes Martinmas, joyfully, for all.

Pilgrimage Along the A1

Mack Hall

From Peterborough drops a road
Across the Fens, into the past
(Where wary wraiths still wear the woad);
It comes to Chesterton at last.

And we will walk along that track,
Or hop a bus, perhaps; you know
How hard it is to sling a pack
When one is sixty-old, and slow.

That mapped blue line across our land
Follows along a Roman way
Where Hereward the Wake made stand
In mists where secret islands lay.

In Chesterton a Norman tower
Beside Saint Michael’s guards the fields;
Though clockless, still it counts slow hours
And centuries long hidden and sealed.

And there before a looted tomb,
Long bare of candles, flowers, and prayers,
We will in our poor Latin resume
Aves for old de Beauville’s cares.