An act of war

I grow tired of the lies - 
the personal, the protective, 
the demonic, the divisive. 

The tangle of deceit is apparent, 
the diverting fictions cheapen,
the debauchery is ever more crude. 

From the depths of deception
there is clarity:
every thought turned to truth 
is an act of war. 

4th June 2020, Somerset, England. 

Cursed and yet free

I say now quite frankly 
to friend and to foe, 
the end is upon us, 
the tide it ebbs low.
As insipid weakness
breaks open the cracks, 
in dreamland and daylight 
we see what we lack.

The bare brittle ego, 
the nation, the tribe, 
the scared, cornered beast 
with claws out to survive.
In this polarised climate
of love, hate and quirks, 
each shall be given
in line with their works. 

For labourers chosen
and heeding the call, 
a place of great balance
comes after their fall. 
The beam of divinity
cuts to the bone, 
shatters their selves
and collapses their homes. 

Bloodied they rise
from the dust with a cry, 
to continue the gauntlet 
of arrows and lies, 
where the star and the pebble,
the brook and the tree,
guide them to touching
the One found in three.

As souls born of light,
here in darkness they see
the template of paradise, 
cursed and yet free. 

For N.K. 

Lost in forgetfulness

When considering the patterns of the individual and the patterns of family and heritage, the homeland draws a frame.

England, that tiny land mass with such disproportionately significant influence throughout history, is no longer standing. It is on its knees. There is a subservience that clouds the eyes and minds of the people, an unquestioning obedience to authority, an unthinking adherence to mechanical routines. A discordant mix of cultures and ideologies has been artificially forced into claustrophobic proximity; tensions ferment ominously as the dull sport of grumbling-about-the-mundane releases a little steam and fills the streets with its pointless noise.

Until you go elsewhere and re-acclimatize over time, you are a fish in water. The English water is indeed murky, muddied most recently by two brutal wars that brought about a high velocity crushing of morale and annihilated generations of men in one fell swoop. The brave were destroyed; those who returned were damaged. The right to bear arms has long since gone, and the inability to protect home and family has stripped us of our power and our sovereignty. Men cannot defend those they love, and beyond that, most of them fail to see that they have allowed this tragedy.

Long Man of Wilmington, by John Holloway

This is our land, and we have forgotten.

The Wilderness by Kathleen Raine

I came too late to the hills: they were swept bare
Winters before I was born of song and story,
Of spell or speech with power of oracle or invocation,

The great ash long dead by a roofless house, its branches rotten,
The voice of the crows an inarticulate cry,
And from the wells and springs the holy water ebbed away.

A child I ran in the wind on a withered moor
Crying out after those great presences who were not there,
Long lost in the forgetfulness of the forgotten.

Only the archaic forms themselves could tell!
In sacred speech of hoodie on gray stone, or hawk in air,
Of Eden where the lonely rowan bends over the dark pool.

Yet I have glimpsed the bright mountain behind the mountain,
Knowledge under the leaves, tasted the bitter berries red,
Drunk water cold and clear from an inexhaustible hidden fountain.

A sense of what is being lost is tangible to all who choose to look below the surface of our current material stupidity. I write these observations with great sorrow, and I grieve for this once powerful land as it falls dormant. It has produced so much goodness and beauty.