Dear all, being too frail to walk, it’s hard to compose. To compose, we need the rhythm of walking and freedom to declaim (loudly). Ah well, let this be first draught.

As I rode out to plough, one morning

Voices of Centuries chimed with my call

Summoned soil and ox and iron bringing

Culture to nature this side of the Fall

 

Property comes with disarray

“Wealth accumulates men decay”

 

As I walked out in the fields one morning

Grass webs caught dew and harvested light

And every sound was of small birds singing

And from every step rose holy delight

 

Landlords came ripping people from land

Money from wool sacks killed husbandry’s hand

 

Now property and usury stalk the field

Without touch, or scent, or sight, or sound

Lord is the market. Money the yield.

Ghosts of destruction shroud holy ground

 

Gaseous blankets from fires, each hour

Smother where people and nature can flower

 

Now millions of sequestered years will burn

And billions of living fields are dead

Enclosure is blind and deaf to the urn

Of the loved and lost and mistreated

 

Living Earth – living people – one and indivisible

Holy soil, holy crops, holy sensible, wholly visible

 

(then joyous fiddle and any other instrument for joy)