brit isles

Out here on the edge of European continental shelf — identity is multiple, fractured and reset, unraveled and rewoven, a matrix of rocks in the briny substrate. Out here identity is archipelagic. People come here over the sea.

The tattered ensigns of empire are weather-bitten. Colours bleed and spoil the land beneath. Too often union meant bondage, fealty, unelective affinities.

What might otherwise be spoken of was muted from the starts. Tongues distinct, split, fought back, removed from discourse, schooling and governance. A library of loan words: recalled, reserved or deaccessioned at will.

Yet there’s life in this place, lives in these places — and while one might not serve as synechdoche for all — there is yet some corporeal community.

It will surely take some serious magick now for the restoryation of the isles. But the current bad juju is re-conjured every morning with less enthusiasm. The passage-worn highways of dreary default allow easy transport for dreamless drudgery and the scaffolding of a broken civics — But routes might be refashioned by design for pleasant passing and inspiring vistas, oneiric cathedrals might backcast their foundations into the waking world.

I appeal to the conservative who celebrates conviviality, sparrows in the hedgerow, acting for the common good, respecting difference, clear water in the brook, support for the distressed, no fumes about the crib, schoolyard or adult world, creative expression, responsibility, response ability, composting, cultivating, keeping in use, challenging bullies, respecting fair play.

I appeal to the radical who does the same, and the radical who speaks truth to power, pulls back curtains, leaps out of closets, illuminates the room to its corners, speaks for those without voices, helps amplify the quiet, stands with, listens, notices where oppressions are and when they arise, checks, celebrates difference, provides other options, is not afraid to rebuild, will dance first (whether the music’s on or not), plans their own demise, plants seeds, gifts blood (and sweat and tears), makes love in the morning, makes love in the afternoon, makes love all over these lands.

A piece of string links here to there, and there to there, there to there, there also, ditto and back to here before another stretch to another there and repeat. And we are all cradled in that weft and we are all both weavers and place-makers.

And this looks better than any flag. And the land beneath this is not stained with blood. And I could wear your colours, and you wear mine, and exchange tomorrow with others, and never find a single uniform.

No anthems on repeat, only endless segues — the genius is is is in the mix.

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