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Across the Levels from Street to Taunton:

Across the Levels from Street to Taunton:

Now the journey got interesting. We took a route out of Street past Walton church through Pedwell, and from the bus I could see a fisherman fishing on the levels beside willows with the sea to the right, miles away. There were black cows sitting on hillocks as they knew if they went down on the flat land they would get their feet wet.
To right and left one could see what was left of old cliffs that were now inland with their feet in mist. At Othery, we turned back . Ahead in a mysterious, unseen way there was no way forward, the road was flooded. The bus did a three point turn in a residential street and waited outside the village school behind another bus.
This was not unlike other waits, on buses, in summer in Devon. There was the silence, the suspense, the fact that no one gets on and no one gets off. What is it about that? I remember this from the Saddlers Arms in Uffculme, en route on the now defunct Exeter to Taunton #29 route, where I wrote this poem:


The nameless village
Somewhere between Taunton and Exeter,
Somewhere on the road of indirection,
That winds from Somerset to Devon
We stop
And a boy in a green T shirt plays football,
Washing dries in the sun
In a brick walled garden
And nobody comes and nobody leaves
And we wait awhile in the afternoon sun,
Resting from the day’s challenges
Until we rejoin the road
Pressing on neither understanding nor concluding
Waiting for pattern and meaning
That never arrives,
In the sunshine.

From Othery on:
So now we retrace our steps up the road we came but this time we make a detour at Westonzoyland and I see scarecrows which I have always loved and make me think of Wurzel Gummidge (and the book by Barbara Ephron). A poem for scarecrows:
Father Christmas as scarecrow,
Amongst the runner bean canes
Tall green and scarlet flowered.

Late August comes with a hint of autumn
And the birds are scattered
By December’s scarlet bearded father.