Random tat

[annwfyn.livejournal.com]

So this is England?

This is England now, larger by far than you remember, intimidating in its size. When did buildings get so big? Do they grow, like chickens or children? Do new storeys burst into existence, concrete tearing through concrete, thrusting upwards like a chick tearing through the egg? That's an idea which makes sense, in a strange way. It seems plausible in a way that nothing else does about the giant grey buildings that loom above you, so big you cannot even see the sky.

This is England now, without any of the colours you remember. What happened to them? Everything seems grey now. Grey skies, grey stone, grey skin on the people who hurry past. Here and there a small limp flower pokes its way out of a grey concrete tub, limp and exhausted with the effort of being the only bright thing amongst the huge and unchanging sea of grey. What does the flower know? Does it know of fields of poppies?

This is England now, where everyone rushes, and everyone shouts and the noise seems almost overwhelming. It's too much, too heavy to carry, too thick too wade through.

This is England.

But this is England as well, where every step seems to carry with it a new memory. Look! There is the sign for King's Cross. Do you remember that time you ran across the station to meet a boy off the train? He lifted you off your feet to swing you around, while he kissed you. Look! There is the Thames, which changes colour from brown to green as the sunlight hits it. Do you remember wading through the mud at low tide to hunt for salveable wreckage there?

This is England, although it does not know you now. You are not the girl who left England. Her hair was not green, and her skin was not covered with knots and whorls. She was broken, fragmented, like glass or sand. You are oak, you are strong, re-born under the Bear Moon, carrying the marks of Herne.

Actually, best not to mention the marks of Herne.

But, anyway, this is England. This is England, and you are home.

Well, maybe not home.

This is England. Let's not call it home just yet. Let us instead say that you have returned to your roots, to the source, to the river and the land and the place where your life comes from. And this is where you will stay.

For a little while.

Comments

[suave-steve.livejournal.com]

The culture shock of a returnee is one of the aspects of Lost I really like.

[badgersandjam.livejournal.com]

When I went back to the US for two years, some friends decided to do a tour of the US via bus. They came to me after visiting New York City. We picked them up at omigod it's early as their bus stopped in New Haven, and for the first day or so, when asked about NYC, all any of them could say (with a sort of stunned expression) was "Big." Sometimes they just glazed over and said "Big," staring into the middle distance.

Being sensible, I didn't go to New York :)