Our new place, a return to that we once frequented,
And only knew in a sense.
A trickle, and then a flood.
A harvest shared, life, and earth mended and fair,
Would take us to our sleep.

The commercialisation and industrialisation of society, in a system of globalised capitalism, is framing our unconscious bias in praise of innovation and improvement. We have a tendency to see things in a in a fundamentally linear progression, and we apply this to ourselves also.

They had wrapped the mountains and moors,
in promises that would feed their hungry eyes and mouths,
which as it should turn out, were the problem all along.

Now here we are, desperately clutching at the shiny metal material, our lives depending on systems so incomprehensible that we do not know how to turn them off, or even if we can. Perhaps a better adage would somehow equate achievement with connection to the ground. At least then if we had to break the machine apart, we would at least be in the dirt, as good a place as any to start something.

There is time to just be.
To mull, and to kindle,
In the quiet, and the gentle,

100 questions to ask about your property when planning a permaculture design.

The garden fills my belly, and under the roots, my soul.

An ephemeral, terrible beauty,
We are all, just simply, one.

Growing food is, at its roots, a simple act and a simple pleasure too. The trouble is, home-grown has become a platitude. Much the way the words seasonal, local, and artisanal have been co-opted as marketing terms, diverted from the meaning they are grounded in, and used to fuel the system that paved over the original human-scale, authentic village market of artisans that they have been derived from.

Rising wood smoke, burnished leaves,
Grey mist and earthen air.
A spell descends at summer’s end,
And for darkness we prepare.