A woman who is campaigning against oil drilling at Biscathorpe has written a poem to air her concerns about the proposals.
Egdon Resources applied for permission at the site in the Lincolnshire village, which is believed to contain more than 30m barrels of oil. Objectors said the development flies in the face of climate concerns, however, the county council has said the climate is not a planning concern.
Community residents will attend the planning decision meeting at Brackenborough Hotel in Louth on November 1, where they will be present a petition signed by over 1,500 people to Lincolnshire County Council.
Jane Air, who lives in Louth, wrote ‘Bubble Bubble, Oil is Trouble’, evoking the spirit of Alfred Lord Tennyson’s famous poem ‘The Brook’ with an echo of the three witches scene in William Shakespeare’s Macbeth (read the full poem at the end of the article).
She told The Lincolnite she has written it just in time for three key events – Halloween, the decision to be made over the fate of Biscathorpe, and the global warming summit Cop26.
Jane said: “I have been part of the campaign against the oil drilling from the very start and felt at this stage that I wanted to contribute to the campaign with a poem.
“I live in Louth but I am a regular walker at Biscathorpe and I am keen for this place of natural beauty and serenity to stay as it is.
“I have seen for myself the oil drill site one evening when it was up and running and I was truly astonished by just how blinding and bright the lights were.
“Insects are naturally drawn to this light and this will in turn will have an adverse affect on the opportunities for the local bats to feed in this area.”
‘Bubble Bubble, Oil is Trouble’
Walking along the Viking Way trail
past the lake, through an iron gate
to where grave stones have no name
no date of death or tale be told
buried under stinging nettles
and ivy clinging to the rails
The cold stony faces of gargoyles
weather beaten over centuries old
look down on us and frown on us
From the gloomy outlook
and gothic heights
of the medieval church
Abandoned and deserted
lost in time, the door is locked
a place that time forgot
Its only claim to fame
in the valley of the bain
is in the Doomsday Book
where it has its name
Nearby Tennyson’s brook
is babbling and bubbling away to this day
The stream glistens and gleams
pristine and clean, tinkering along
to its own gentle song
Flowing over chalky boulders
and under bridges full of midges
And where flowering watercress
and towering irises reside
and native crayfish fight to survive
Ravens squawk and squabble amongst themselves
as if this land belongs to them and nobody else
A meadow of buttercups
and red clover runneth over
Divided by a melting road
glistening beneath our feet
Tarmac reverting back to tar, smelting
in the beat of sweltering smouldering heat
From the fiery cauldron in the sky
boiling up temperatures from on high
Higher and higher temperatures rise
never reaching the summit of lies
Bubble bubble oil is trouble
fires burn, flood waters double
Cows and calves take refuge
in the shade of the huge chestnut tree cast
As if nothing can disturb their munching of the grass
moving up and down the valley in their herd
at their own leisurely gentle pace they pass
And what is life
if one cannot have the time
to stop and stare
at the hare
leaping about in the field beyond
the strip of wild flowers ?
Or while away the hours walking along
the Viking Way
with hemlock dangling in the way
and soon the harvest of the hay
But this place, full of nature’s grace
cannot escape the curse and chaos of our weather
Nor will Tennyson’s brook
remain the same forever
For further along, it sings a different song
of our weather gone wrong
Now out of tune, its banks have broken
burst and ballooned
Its flow is stagnant and slow, swelling
and swirling sluggishly
around ancient trees up to their knees
half drowned, ungrounded, surrounded
Bubble bubble oil is trouble
fires burn, flood waters double.