How noticing helped a village write a poem – a story of community, creativity, and connection on a Devon Green

When I was approached to create a community poem for a charity I felt nervous. How would it work? I asked a few poet friends how they approached these projects, and they made it sound like fun – instinctive, playful, a bit like making a collage. I’d give this collaborative way of working a go – and maybe learn something about my own practice along the way. 

Preparing the Ground

Sandford Millennium Green is a shared green space in the heart of my farming village in Devon. Established by a small group of volunteers in 1999 through funding from the Countryside Commission’s Millennium Greens Project, it began as twelve acres of boggy farmland. Now, after 25 years of volunteer effort, it’s a diverse habitat for nature and a much-loved green space for the community.

Literature Works runs Seed Bed – a funding programme supporting creative writing projects with a focus on wellbeing and nature. Working with Sandford Millennium Green Trust, I put together an application to run a nature noticing and creative writing workshop on the Green, and to create a poetry and writing pamphlet for people to keep. We were delighted when we heard that we’d got the go-ahead.

At a time of disconnection –  from nature, one another, and ourselves, this is the kind of work that matters most to me. Space like this offers us the opportunity to slow down, notice, and connect, through attention.

A Walk Through Wildness

Steven McCulloch, a hedgelayer and nature advocate, began our morning of creativity with a nature noticing workshop. Furnished with clipboards, pens, and encouragement to write down anything they noticed or felt, our group of eleven – ranging in age from a babe in arms, to retirement – gathered around Steve as he played bird call recordings to help us identify what we could hear. 

We moved in a wiggly line, through a gate to the meadow, traditionally managed to encourage biodiversity, and producing the sweetest smelling hay in late summer. Steve handed out feed sacks and asked us all – from 4 to 74 – to lie down on our bellies amongst the sea of yellow buttercups. Next to me, 4 year old Aelfwynn drew butterflies and a spider web she’d spotted. Exclamations began to go up: shiny beetles and flies, a little moth, beads of dew on conical horsetails. Steve went between us encouraging us to notice what was flowering and what had passed into the next stage, setting seed. He showed us how a small black beetle was going between the stamen on a cuckoo flower to collect pollen, explaining how vital beetles are for pollination. 

In a damp area of the meadow where the grass was spiky and wet, he showed us the green and purple tiger striped leaves of the southern marsh orchid, and Pete, his eye in now, spotted one beginning to flower. We trailed Steve out of the meadow and along a secret path into some scrubby thicket, bending to duck into a small hollow in the spiky blackthorn. A flock of long-tailed tits twitched and cheeped overhead and, looking up, we noticed a pigeon balanced in her nest. And then came the sound of a black cap, making us giddy. “The not-so-pretty bits are just as important for nature,” Steve tells us.

Poetry in the Rain

As we assembled at the cob shelter for the writing workshop, the skies turned thundery grey. When the rain came the group moved together, carrying chairs, baskets and tankards of pens, over to the tent. Over the shout of the rain, I invited everyone to come to stillness, reading Mary Oliver’s, Prayer:

It doesn’t have to be/ the blue iris, it could be/ weeds in a vacant lot, or a
few/ small stones; just/ pay attention, then patch/ a few words together
and don’t try/ to make them elaborate, this isn’t/ a contest but the doorway/ into thanks, and a silence in which another voice may speak. 

“Our focus is on having fun and discovering what lies beneath, about connecting with ourselves and our natural environment,” I assured them, sensing people’s nerves. “But I’m not creative,” said Bridgett. “I can’t write!” said Jo.

To get our writing muscles moving we began with some free writing, two-minute bursts starting with. “I remember…”, “I notice…”, and finally, “I will…” Looking around the tent as the rain battered the roof, I could see bowed heads, pens racing across the page. We were off!

Next, drawing on noticings from Steve’s walk, I invited everyone to describe the part of the Green they were most drawn to, and how they experienced it through their senses. “Don’t overthink it,” I said. “Write without stopping. Be honest – it doesn’t have to be pretty. If you saw dog poo and a crisp packet, write it down!”

As we went on, people grew more confident to share something from their writing, or say something about what they’d noticed. Sitting in a circle, writing and sharing, felt brave and big-hearted.

We moved on to a prompt inspired by poet Liz Berry’s use of the old Black Country word ‘tranklements’, meaning trinkets. I’d gathered leaves, feathers, cones, bark, and fabric scraps for people to explore. Aelfwynn chose a tiny piece of red stitched bunting I’d found the night before.

“With your eyes closed,” I said, “feel it against your face. What does it smell like, feel like?  If it had a voice, what would its voice sound like and what would it say? How did it get here, what was its journey? What did it see?”  I noticed that the framing of the prompt might be overwhelming, and made a mental note to simplify it for next time.

Finally, I asked the group to imagine that the Green had a voice. “What it might say to you?” I said, “Write down its message, even one word is enough.”

As the rain hardened, I drew the workshop to a close and Aelfwynn went around collecting everyone’s writing in a top hat.

Weaving the Words

Now it was over to me to shape something fitting – to honour the people and our time together. I gathered the group’s words, identifying themes and ways to create flow and finding freedom in being a vessel for others’ words. It felt more open and playful, and truer to real creativity. Perhaps I’d worried that I wasn’t creative either – but working like this showed me again, that we all are, and even more so when we work together; that we make our realities and can shape our future.

It felt like the Green was asking for a voice, so I introduced a refrain that speaks throughout, blessing and observing. The result feels part conversation, part prayer.

As a poet and community engagement practitioner, I’m increasingly interested in how language emerges through collective experience and deep noticing. This project reaffirmed for me that writing can be an act of listening – of gathering what’s already there and giving it shape. It’s a way of working that I’ll keep developing in future commissions.

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Listen to our community poem, A Green Prayer – written with and from the voices of Sandford

Read our community poem:

A Green Prayer

Still, I notice

the shape of the flowers, smell of fox, yellow iris in the pond,

a buttercup sea of yellow, balance, calm, rain, 

the scent of freedom, the fluffiness of flowers, 

the warmth of my friend alongside me,

grass in all its many textures, the astonishing beauty of a spiral,

– the dew on the horsetail glittering the earth, the sun hot on my back.

I run my hands over wild clovers, smell the damp leaves and soil, 

hear the birds and want to sing along, the sound of the stream, 

voices on the path, far but near, an echo, a remembered sound

– I watch a butterfly, coloured white, fly to the meadow.

And the Green whispers,
I may change as the river floods or is no more,
as the sun burns, or the cold comes, but I am here.
Be still, look and know – soak it all up and give it out to the world.

I taste happiness in a hidden place, 

a little wilderness, an ancient site, a place to gather,

not the work of people, but trees bent to form a roof, 

bowing, cool, like a shelter where a pigeon nests and long-tailed tits make it alive 

– a miracle, a sweet symphony of pink and grey.

And the Green sighs,

Explore me, see my small things, I’m a community of nature.

I feel part of it all, part of the earth,

the baby apples under the fading blossom,

the marestail with its pin-like leaves, 

pussy willow flowers covering the path,

the birdsong and fresh green smell of wind and sun,

children’s cries of discovery, 

heat sending hoverflies and bees dancing.
 

I will return to this magical place to absorb and be, 

to dance barefoot with my baby brother,

to feel space, companionship, feel alive and breathe the air.

I will come back to the meadow and lie on my belly like a child

– seeing an eye level view of cuckoo flower, plantain, blackthorn, orchids.

And the Green says,

Life is abundant when you look with your heart;
notice me, feel me, be with me, enjoy me.
Come, draw breath, relax, be happy!

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Words from the Group

“It was brilliant! Before I came I was anxious, thinking others would be more creative than me, but I enjoyed it so much and found that I was just as creative as everyone else.”
—Bridget Merrett

“I felt apprehensive before but afterwards felt completely relaxed – creating with others was so powerful and I will remember this time spent enjoying the Green with others from my community.”
—Steven McCulloch

“It was wonderful to be in the meadow and really observe. We had a wonderful time, thank you so much for setting it up. I felt really happy after the workshops.”
—Jo Forrest

“I loved the tour with Steve – it was really inspiring, and thanks for the great creative session.”
—Tim Beckerley

“I was surprised by the amount of life you can see by lying in a meadow or delving into the scrub!”
—Pete Forrest

“Everyone ignored the rain because the group was so good. I’m so thrilled it was funded and made available to us. I feel more in touch with nature.”
—Philip Cunningham

“I loved feeling a part of the community and so encouraged and inspired.”
—Johanna Clarie

“I loved it so much I cried! I thought I knew the Green but I feel so uplifted and intrigued. Thank you, it was so lovely.”
—Susie Williams

“It was magical – the children really got into it! I didn’t know what to expect but afterwards I felt like I could see the Green in a different way.”
—Beth Reynolds

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Making more space for noticing

I’m always open to community commissions, collaborations and creative writing workshops that explore our connection to nature and place. If you’d like to work together, drop me a line –  I’d love to hear from you.

Funding

The Seed Bed programme, run by Literature Works, supports grassroots creative writing projects that explore environmental and ecological crises. The fund champions community-led initiatives in the South West, with a particular focus on areas identified for Levelling Up for Culture support.