The sky unbuckled at the rim where thunder crowned the plain, And from the loam, the river rose with judgement in its reign. It leapt the banks where cotton fed, and swept the homesteads bare, And bore away the daughters’ song that once had lingered there. No cradle sways, no echo sings beneath the shattered tree, The river took the children’s song, and drowned what was to be.

I watched the fields where once we strode, now fallow, brown, and bare, The scents of grain and orchard lost to poisoned plastic air. The master's hand once tilled the soil, now clenched in silent dread, For those who rule behind the screen would see the garden dead. They speak of clouds and carbon lines while scratching at the root, And crush the farmer’s honest trade beneath a booted suit.

The watchmen’s post stands scorched and bare, the lamp untrimmed, the bell unswung, While lords in silken chamber chairs debate what makes a felon young. The thief walks out with law in hand, his sentence penned in victim’s ink, And shopmen hide their battered eyes for fear their fate's the same, they think.

One king once struck the Roman yoke, and made his stand by English shore, He cast the Pope’s bright chain aside, and crowned the Book his nation’s law. Yet now, beneath the vaulted Dome, where saints once knelt and kings were crowned, A softer treason stirs the air, where silence mocks the Gospel’s sound. For Westminster, with silvered tongue, now sells its soul by carbon scale, And breaks from Canterbury’s hand, to court a Dragon wrapped in veil.

I woke where warmth and sleep abide, where master’s young ones lie, Their fingers tugged my ear with love beneath the waking sky. She, soft of voice and full of smells, brought food and stroked my head, And master drew my Daycloak close, and out the pack then led. The garden laughed with light and scent, the gate swung wide and free, Oh joy! Oh world of hidden smells! Come dance and play with me!

They scorn the stock from whence they came, and curse the fields their grandsires trod, They fling the gates to lawless tides and call it virtue, not a fraud. They kiss the feet of foreign foes, but mock the hand that ploughed their land, And trade the crown for counterfeit, with coin and power in open hand.

When Nelson’s hand was ash and dust, his wake endured in steel and sail, And every mast from Plymouth sound to Sunda bore the lion’s tale. From Jutland’s roar to Falkland’s swell, Britannia watched with brow unbowed, Her pennants flared in foreign winds, her ensigns tore through hostile cloud. The sun would never set, they swore, on hulls that ruled from tide to tide, For law was laid on cannon decks where liberty and sea-power ride. Yet now the docks are rotted dreams, and rust weeps down the bo’sun's chain, The ghost of Drake still stalks the strait, but finds his ocean throne in vain.

Here begins the fragment of the Seventeenth Book of the Lost Chronicle of Albion, found beneath the stones of St. Ethelred’s, where moss grew through the windows and the roof had long since wept into the nave. Let those who read it mark well the signs, for though the names have faded, the pattern endures.

In England’s land where tyrants fell and common men once broke their chains, Now silence is the price you pay for daring words or lawful claims. No crime declared, no jury trial, no proof beyond a neighbour’s spite, Just speak too loud, or wrong online, and vanish in the dead of night. You need not steal, nor break a law, just “nuisance” is enough today, A whisper from some slighted soul, and speech itself is swept away. 

The Watchman stood with empty hand, dismissed for drawing out his blade, While felons walked with lifted brows, by law and lectured rite obeyed. The lords who sit in cloaks of silk have gagged the tongue that calls for aid, And virtue stands before the court, accused by vice in justice' shade.

They came not clad in warlike dress, but ragged hope and threadbare shoes, Across the tide of salt and dusk where shadowed traffickers enthuse. No banners flew above their heads, no flags of nation gave them shield, Just whispered names and crumpled notes and faith too young to yield.

They heard the thrum of boots on dust, not knowing friend from foe, And wagged their tails with open hearts as dawn began to glow. They thought the guests had come to play, with pockets full of meat, But terror wears a human face, not always shod in sleet.