Elly HadawayThe Druids' Harvest/November Leaves
Folk/Acoustic Rock/Americana HyperLink
/uploads2/158746_5_22_2016_9_34_49_AM_-_Druidy - square.jpg
song created                                

Monday, March 22, 2021 8:55:32 PM
song updated                               

Monday, March 22, 2021 8:55:32 PM
stations playing this song              
Convalesence
Finnegans Wake Book 1 Chapter 1
KINDRED FM - a Desperado Revue station
IndieMusicPeople

 















A decidedly mystical folk song with a classical influence (and some wind noises!)

Lyrics, mixing and production: Somhairle Kelly
Music, vocals and ukulele: Elly Hadaway

This is the fifth and final track of my 2015 EP, "Tell Me Where the Ocean Went", and I think one of my favourites. Like every track from the EP, it is about an aspect of the British landscape: in this case the autumnal change from harvest to leaf-fall, and the colours, seen through the eyes of an artist.
The woodland looks fantastic at this
time of year. (In the strictest sense;
a fantasy, a mere collage of every
smeared and painted word.) It begins
with greens; I'll spare the list I
heard, and only note: they're mostly stones.
The amber, though, is always
earth. There's nothing trapped, and no
beginning there; no tree to bleed,
no time laid down for bandages.
The gold's a cousin-rhyme to autumn
sun; we know it's dying now, and
yet it isn't gone. All down each
leaf, the shellfish-trickle runs;
one last imperious hurrah, some
bastard stateless church. So read
the book you brought; it doesn't matter
which. You need a brush, a pen, a
memory - whatever ink you always use -
and wait. The link will forge itself. x
Song Comments

Finnegans Wake Book 1 Chapter 1
And we'll be coming here, the ombre players, to rake your gravel and bringing you presents, won't we, fenians? And it isn't our spittle we'll stint you of, is it, druids? Not shabbty little imagettes, pennydirts and dodgemyeyes you buy in the soottee stores. But offerings of the field. Mieliodories, that Doctor Faherty, the madison man, taught to gooden you. Poppypap's a passport out. And honey is the holiest thing ever was, hive, comb and earwax, the food for glory, (mind you keep the pot or your nectar cup may yield too light!) and some goat's milk, sir, like the maid used to bring you.


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