At Waterhatch, Winchcombe
It’s close to silent at this former farm,
without a breeze to rustle through the site –
yet something’s here. You feel it brush your arm!
The undergrowth has risen to a height
amidst the ruins – fallen, falling, bricks
and almost all the farmhouse buried deep
in earth and roots and water’s viscous mix;
an outhouse only holds its own old heap
of rubble now. But something glimmers, steel,
a moss-strewn buttress crumbling either side –
this is the farm’s once-whirring water-wheel,
and though it’s still today, it stands astride
the stream of Beesmoor Brook with dignity,
amongst the ghosts of early industry.
without a breeze to rustle through the site –
yet something’s here. You feel it brush your arm!
The undergrowth has risen to a height
amidst the ruins – fallen, falling, bricks
and almost all the farmhouse buried deep
in earth and roots and water’s viscous mix;
an outhouse only holds its own old heap
of rubble now. But something glimmers, steel,
a moss-strewn buttress crumbling either side –
this is the farm’s once-whirring water-wheel,
and though it’s still today, it stands astride
the stream of Beesmoor Brook with dignity,
amongst the ghosts of early industry.
This poem is copyright (©) Felicity Teague 2026
About the Writer
Felicity Teague
Felicity Teague (Fliss for short) lives in Cheltenham, not far from Pittville Park and its wonderful wildlife. She has a very serious job in publishing and enjoys writing poems during her playtime. Her poetry has appeared in a number of journals and she has published two books. She also enjoys art, birdwatching, films, music, and photography.
