My name’s Chloe and I am a Master’s student studying Creative Writing at Loughborough University. I am also a frequent visitor of the Danesbury Fernery. This poem was written as part of an assignment for my degree, but it is also an ode to a historical gem that is precious to Welwyn and all our residents.
When we first moved to Welwyn over 10 years ago, the Fernery was simply a fenced-off, overgrown piece of land that overlooked the A1M. I didn’t know what it was, and I certainly didn’t know anything about the history behind it. Over time, I noticed the area starting to take shape as members of The Friends of Danesbury Fernery volunteered hours of their time behind the scenes to make this a place that would honour its heritage whilst breathing new life into the area. With roots leading back to the Victorian period, the Danesbury Fernery is a wonderland of history, unfurling each day into something truly magnificent.
This is something which I aimed to demonstrate through my writing.
Fern Fever
Where the grounds once felt barren and lonely, he told them
tie together the loose strands
and lace them at the foot of this great, white mansion;
together they built a haven in a verdant valley.
For weeks he put pen to paper and the thoughts unravelled
into woven baskets; twisting roots that stretched and shrunk beneath the silt.
He battled against layers of stubborn clay that sunk into the fields and
fought back to repair the fronds trampled under its long-forgotten yellows.
The softness of his palms sheltered us from thoughtless, foraging hands.
Within a pit of knotted nettles,
there unfurled a sanctuary.
The air feels warmer here, splintered with Pulhamite pinks and breaks
of luscious greenery, where the sunshine breathes patient sighs and dewdrops
blink into puddles. This nook has always been here: a sloping bank
waiting in the void,
listening out for the words to be spoken
– I want you to build a Fernery.
We are a refuge of rare gems: a patchwork bridge sweeping over boulders
and collecting the Earth’s dust between its splintered fingers. This is a home for the Royals,
a bed for the Blechnums to bathe,
where Oak and Elm exchange pleasantries in the Autumn shade.
Now the seasons shift and this secret place
rearranges as new life burrows for roots.
Autumn melts into the clean air and we exhale watercolour paints;
an escape from the charades of the city.
With the last potted shrubs, the artist stands back to admire his work:
the best to be found for miles.
By Chloe Cheng
Leave a Reply