Cathedrals for our only mountains

I heard Jacques Brel's Le Plat Pays and even through the filter of my terrible French it seemed to resonate with the Fenland landscape. Or perhaps it was my terrible French distorting what Brel wrote into something that I thought I'd heard: the half understood words blending into the landscape, like the water and the land becoming mingled and lost in each other. In the last few days, the bitterest notes of winter have begun to rise again. The fens are now more often wet than crisp with frost and so the mornings are thick with mist. When there is early sun, it seems confused, peeking under the white sheets to see if the wetlands are awake. They will sleep a while yet and while they do, the ground dreams that it is the sky, and the sky dreams that it is the marsh, and the long frost has bowed the heads of even the last-standing reeds in sleep.