Snell Publishers

Independent e-publishers of fantasy, self-help and travel poetry

Taunton Home

I did get home. I did escape from the Somerset Levels in flood. It does feel like disaster travelling through it, but a quiet disaster, a patient disaster. One that creeps up slowly, by inches, as water levels rise. No drama. An inexorable drip, inch by inch as cattle wait to be rescued and the sheep despairingly wonder how long they are to look like Peruvian lamas when they are blackface or somerset poll, as they are in this poem: Read More...

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. Read More...