– Ode to an Ancient Land –
That is maybe a rhetorical question, so I will not so much ask as state ‘England is going under’. And while that may be taken metaphorically, I mean it more actually. Great swathes of the Country are slowly drowning under a relentless rainfall that is part and parcel of an almost continuous barrage of winter storms moving in off the Atlantic Ocean.
England sticks out into the Atlantic as if asking to be the recipient of an oceanic battering. The Country leans into the South Westerly’s as a sailor pits himself against driving wind and spray. She is an island in an Ocean, and one that is close to going under.
There are powerful karmic forces weaving their historical tentacles into this unfolding saga.
England once stood boldly out of this same Atlantic Ocean sending her great ships tacking across the high seas, seeking out new Continents and exploiting whatever treasures fell upon their way. Building empire across the globe in an ever expanding push for power and glory, wealth and prestige. From this small island on the Western flank of Continental Europe, the sailing ships and crews set forth and those that returned, came with their holds crammed with the trophies of their plunder.
Kings and Queens applauded their exploits, planning and funding ever greater incursions into the territories they so indulgently sought to lay their claim upon. Invasion was followed by conquest. Conquest by slavery. Slavery by the rule of Westminster and the Palace. Rule imposed for the ever greater enrichment of the coffers of the State, its barons and hierarchical elite.
Soon England no longer depended for nourishment upon her own fertile lands and artisan skills. The peasant farmers were pushed unceremoniously off the land as Empire became the new provider and the landless British worker was yoked to the production line, becoming a tool for mass produced exports to newly conquered lands.
The demise of the British Isles was well underway even as its industrial revolution ground down the last native skills and seasonal rituals of a once bucolic countryside.
Now the barley barons and kings of industry reigned over our colonial wealth-bolstered Atlantic island. While, almost unnoticed, the newly instated merchant banker moved deftly into the wheel house so as to decisively lay his hand upon the course of history and build a money empire to match, and eventually overtake, the acquisitions of the colonies.
The City of London soon stood solid and arrogant – the power house of this vast Empire.
And while the British initiated slave trade was finally banned by an act of parliament, the British people took over the mantle of slavery, bowing to the new citadel whose tentacles reached out into great swathes of colonial wealth – and steadily drank it dry.
Oh England, my England, so where is your soul today?
Two World wars then tore the last of your subtle spirit from its sanctuary of rolling hills and valleys where once King Arthur ventured on his mystic journey and Druid tribals camped among the ancient oaks and standing stones.
Where to now old island?
Now that the foolish men in dark suits shout their pathetic schoolboy jibes to and fro across the floor of what was once a shrine to an idea called democracy. Now that the macadam motorway and sterile hypermarket have vanquished the ox cart’s winding track and breezy market stall – where to now?
Now that the spirits and devas are driven from the edge of once pristine tinkling streams, and enchanted copses have met their fate at the hand of the brutal chain-saw. Where to now?
Now it is your turn to be on the receiving end. The crimes of your past are catching-up with you, dear England. The arrogance and greed of your masters could not go unnoticed – could not pass-by unattoned for. Nor could the pacifistic stance taken by the greater populous when confronted with such frequent acts of national and international vandalism.
The karmic retribution could not be stalled forever.
Prepare your arks all those who can read the signs. Prepare yourselves for the deluge –whose first ferocious swathes are already upon the land.
Head for the hills and higher climbs and take simple tools to prepare the ground. A great cleansing is upon this island; a cleansing that will jolt befuddled minds into memories of great stories of other eras, when lands were swallowed by mighty acts of nature.
And yes, nature it is that once again rises up in defiance of all attempts to bring her under the control of those who would use and abuse her for their private wealth and make of her a platform for staging their profit driven foreign wars.
This oh so British ‘civilization’, once so proud to lead the way in matters of conquest, was always bound at some point to receive its retribution. So proud to turn away from nature and forge its industrial steel into the wheels of the brave new world of mass consumerism.
A world that left behind it all gentle arts that nature had so diligently taught.
But such is She that no man can turn his back for long upon her simmering powers. No man can lay claim to having pacified and sold her soul – because passivity was not on her agenda, and her soul was never for sale. And those who sought to profit from her bounty will soon leave empty handed; for that time, prophesied of old, has finally come.
Not even the vicious technologically engineered destruction of our climate can suppress the rising winds of change that are upon this scarred and battered jewel called Earth. It can only increase their velocity.
So look now upon the rising waters and know what they are. Few Countries will escape the fever that’s upon this World. A fever for which the only cure is the unconditional metamorphosis of man himself, washed through and through, cleansed of that reckless hubris which has brought us to this tipping point.
The tide is turning upon mankind – and this England which juts out into the rising stormy ocean to her West, will shoulder a heavy price for its blinkered, stubborn occupants, who for so long turned a blind eye on deeper truths and refused to look upon the blood encrusted pages of colonial history.
Go under then. But when the great healing is finally done and the storms abate .. recede; rise again oh beautiful island, greet the coming dawn in vivid celebration of all that’s sacred, true, profound. Set forth your green and glorious valleys once more, so the animals may step out once again, two by two, to greet the unmasked glory which calls to be reborn.
Meet Julian at Watkins Bookshop, London, February 20th 2014 – see link http://www.watkinsbooks.com/review/author-talks-in-january-february-2014