It is Dawn, breaking, in June in England as I, now an old man with three feet to guide him on his walks, [1] look out from an open window to hear the Blackbird beginning its song when the modern clock-time is around four o’clock in the morning. A song whose beginning varies as measured by such a modern human-manufactured time but whose genesis is the natural, unmeasured, rhythm of Nature. For only a month or so it was a clock-measured hour later at five o’clock.
The Dawn, here in a county of England, is a natural Dawn, when we remaining few, now or in memory, go or used to go out in all weathers, to contain the milk that our Cows, on farms, produced and which milk so many consumers in towns and cities still seemed to need or enjoy.
There was, or seemed and even now seems to me to be, a natural rhythm there, in such personal manual outdoor toil. A somewhat calmer and slower way of living that apparently has no or little place in the modern world that has evolved around us. But perhaps this is just nostalgia from a now geriatric man remembering former joys, which though sometimes forged in trying times, became for him at least the genesis of a supra-personal perspective.
David Myatt
June 15th 2024
[1] Who with “his foliage drying up and no stronger than a child, with three feet to guide him on his travels, wanders – appearing a shadow in the light of day.” τό θ᾽ ὑπέργηρων φυλλάδος ἤδη κατακαρφομένης τρίποδας μὲν ὁδοὺς στείχει, παιδὸς δ᾽ οὐδὲν ἀρείων ὄναρ ἡμερόφαντον ἀλαίνει. Aeschylus, Agamemnon, 79-82. My translation.
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David Myatt
It Is Dawn
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It is Dawn, breaking, in June in England as I, now an old man with three feet to guide him on his walks, [1] look out from an open window to hear the Blackbird beginning its song when the modern clock-time is around four o’clock in the morning. A song whose beginning varies as measured by such a modern human-manufactured time but whose genesis is the natural, unmeasured, rhythm of Nature. For only a month or so it was a clock-measured hour later at five o’clock.
The Dawn, here in a county of England, is a natural Dawn, when we remaining few, now or in memory, go or used to go out in all weathers, to contain the milk that our Cows, on farms, produced and which milk so many consumers in towns and cities still seemed to need or enjoy.
There was, or seemed and even now seems to me to be, a natural rhythm there, in such personal manual outdoor toil. A somewhat calmer and slower way of living that apparently has no or little place in the modern world that has evolved around us. But perhaps this is just nostalgia from a now geriatric man remembering former joys, which though sometimes forged in trying times, became for him at least the genesis of a supra-personal perspective.
David Myatt
June 15th 2024
[1] Who with “his foliage drying up and no stronger than a child, with three feet to guide him on his travels, wanders – appearing a shadow in the light of day.” τό θ᾽ ὑπέργηρων φυλλάδος ἤδη κατακαρφομένης τρίποδας μὲν ὁδοὺς στείχει, παιδὸς δ᾽ οὐδὲν ἀρείων ὄναρ ἡμερόφαντον ἀλαίνει. Aeschylus, Agamemnon, 79-82. My translation.
°°°
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