People are crossing the sea
Risking all in flimsy skin-covered boats
They bring their crop seeds, their cattle and sheep with them
Everything they have they bring
Searching for a new life, a new beginning in a new land at the very edge of the world
People are crossing the narrow sea, braving the waves, the storms, the craggy reefs that can tear their hopes to shreds
From all over mainland Europe the pioneer settlers tens of thousands of years ago are setting sail
Landing on the shores of this unexplored fable
And finding the green promise they hoped for
A place of plenty, an island sanctuary thick with forests
A land to put down roots, build sturdy round houses and enclosures for their domesticated stock.
The people from across the sea are farmers now, clearing land for growing food, building their tribal villages, living and sharing their lives together in a unity of purpose
And so they swing their axes; tools shaped from stone, felling the forest trees around them to build their wooden world
And they swing their axes
And they see the forests; how the branches of the great oaks sway in the wind
And they swing their axes
And they see the wading birds take flight as they chop and gather reeds from the waterways to thatch the roofs of their houses
And they swing their axes
And they see the sun rise and mark the twilight as the sky reveals a canopy of wonder, studded with stars, the moon suspended in space, blessing the earth with its silver rays
And they swing their axes
And they feel the mystery of it all as they dig the soil that bears their crops and walk the meadows where their cattle graze
And they swing their axes
And they feel the mystery of it all as they gather in their harvest of pulses, barley and wheat; how the earth sustains them, gives them life
And they swing their axes
And they feel the mystery of it all as the seasons change with certain regularity: the waxing of the moon and the rising of the sun, measuring the span of human fragility
And they swing their axes, their dependable, practical axes, cutting a swathe of forest, creating a space to thrive, a haven of safety in a reckless world where life is fleeting and frail.
The migrant farmers are Britons now
Generations of families have left their settled mark on the landscape
Their great communal monuments and standing stones testify their solid belief in their place here
Chiselled with patient fortitude by axes also made of stone
And across the narrow sea men are climbing mountains
Men are climbing through clouds to quarry the green jade rock halfway between the earth and the celestial realm of ancestors and gods
Men are risking their lives to quarry the rock with care and reverence
Dragging massive boulders downwards to where it can be cut and shaped and polished smooth into an object of significance
An icon of struggle, of human enterprise, the tool of toil and progress
A powerful shape, a magical thing – a jade axe.
People are crossing the sea, making the same perilous journey to trade their goods with faraway tribes who prize the precious green stone from the remote Alpine Mountains of Italy
People are crossing the narrow sea, staking their lives to trade with others: furs and pelts, jewellery, livestock and glistening river pearls; all manner of fine things are worthy of such a long, long journey.
And in Canterbury, 6000 years ago, here is an axe
An axe without a haft
An axe that has been meticulously fashioned in faraway mysterious mountains in another land by foreign people who have travelled many thousands of miles to trade and share their stories
An axe without a haft
Unique and special, not a mere tool for cutting or chopping wood
A green axe without a haft
A prestigious ceremonial object bestowing respect on its owner.
And in a sacred circle of stone sentinels they gather: a ceremony of thanks to the goddess, to the sun, to the moon, to the rain that makes things grow and gives them life and hope for the coming harvest
They look up to the night sky as their shamanic chieftain lifts the axe to the roof of the world
Sparkling beneath the bewildering, blinking, mind-blast of stars
And he lifts the axe
A prayer, a benediction, an acknowledgement of humility and humanity
A blade shaped shard of human thought
And he lifts the axe
An axe imbibed with totemic symbolism
And he lifts the axe
Stories and myths fused in its sacred stone
The axe is held aloft in awe and wonder before the assembled tribe
The night fire reflecting in its polished green stone, twinkling and sparking like the stars above
The tribe are gathered together, looking skywards, searching for answers to questions they don’t quite understand...
The puzzle of existence, the fear of death, the legacy of ancestors whose ancient memories ache their way through the soil beneath their feet.
And the next day as dawn breaks the struggle continues - the daily tasks that require human effort and ingenuity
And so they till the soil to grow their crops
They weave flax and wool to make their clothes
They hunt with spears and arrows for meat
And they swing their axes to cut down trees
And they swing their axes to gather timber for their fires
And they swing their axes
Except the green one without a haft...
And sometime many years later it is somehow lost or buried
Buried perhaps as an offering to the gods
Or in homage to the ancestors who shunned the dread of death and uncertainty
Fearlessly crossing the cold callous sea in flimsy boats made of wood and stitched animal hide
Buried in homage to a legacy of fortitude and resilient labour: regular and necessary and often drudgingly monotonous.
And as time passes the legend of the axe and its stories is forgotten
Until one day many years later it is found again by their island descendants
A message from the past shaped in stone
A relic of human endeavour
A symbol of survival
A jade axe.
