Walk by the innumerable ponds and lakes of The Forest and you will see this. Understated yet tall.
The Common Reed, Phragmites australis, French Roseau commun, Dutch Gewoon riet, (riet = reed) is as old as the marshes themselves. Its name comes from Greek phragmites, “growing in fences,” from phragma, a hedge or barrier, and Latin australis, meaning “southern.” Not the tropics, just southern compared to Linnaeus’ Sweden, where this reed seemed a plant of gentler climates.
It’s a native of Belgium, a true child of our wetlands. Riet grew here long before monks harvested it for thatch and fencing, and it still flourishes around the marais of Gaillemarde. Where there’s quiet water and a touch of sun, In folklore, the reed stands for resilience, the reed takes hold and shapes the shore.
Ecologically, it’s the architecture of the marsh, its dense stems shelter reed warblers, bitterns, moorhens, and sedge warblers, while the roots weave through the mud, binding soil and filtering water. When the wind comes, the whole stand bends as one, whispering but never breaking.
From these same marshes once came the first music. Hollow reeds cut and bound became flutes and pipes; later, their thin slivers gave voice to the oboe and clarinet. Do we hear Toots? A statue lies not far away. Each note that trembles through a reed still carries the memory of the wind that once passed through the marsh. This photo was taken from the very place that Neolithic people settled by the lakes in present day Gaillemarde.
The mighty oak may fall, the Beech may falter, but the reed yields and survives. Some say it whispers the secrets of the marsh — words carried between wind and water. So next time you pass a patch of tall reeds, pause. They are not weeds, but keepers of stillness, standing between earth and reflection.