Postcards from Godley Moor, Autumn 2020 is a 7 track album, 36 minutes long, and the third in a series of 4 seasonal releases from Alula Down. The album is released as digital download only accompanied by a strictly limited edition of 50 7”x5” art cards. The art card sales include a free digital download of the album. The collection of 8 Winter Postcards are a combination of original poetry, text and artwork and are printed on 100% recycled, uncoated 350gsm unbleached card.
The album tracks are a collage of local field recordings, traditional & new original songs, and semi-improvised instrumentals. The album was created during the Winter of 2020/1, between the cross quarter days of Samhain and Imbolc. This album will be followed by ‘Postcards’ for Spring (in May 2021), and was preceded by Postcards from Godley Moor over Summer and Autumn 2020.
Profits from the sale of the cards will go to Global Greengrants (www.greengrants.org/who-we-are/) supporting solutions for those whose lives are impacted by environmental harm and social injustice
Includes unlimited streaming of Postcards from Godley Moor, Winter 2020/1
via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
...more
ships out within 3 days
edition of 50
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lyrics
A translation of a 14th century lyric learnt from the singing of John Fleagle. With voice, and distant New Years Eve fireworks, midnight 31/12/20.
Wynter wakeneth al my care
Wynter wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare;
Ofte I sike ant mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoght
Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.
Nou hit is, and nou hit nys,
Also hit ner nere, ywys;
That moni mon seith, soth hit ys:
Al goth bote Godes wille:
Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle.
Al that gren me graueth grene,
Nou hit faleweth al by dene:
Jesu, help that hit be sene
Ant shild us from helle!
For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle
The lyric is from Herefordshire, written in Leominster around 1310 (according to Edward Bliss Reed) when there was a Benedictine priory in the town. It is sung here in a very rough translation from the early english (pre-Chaucer):
Winter wakens all my care
Now the trees are all bare
Sometimes I sit in sorrow and mourn
When it comes in my thoughts
Of this worlds joy, how it goes all to naught.
Now it is, and now it is not
All as though it never was
But many men say it and so it is
All goes but God's will
And we shall die, though we like it ill.
All the grain that grew so green,
Now it fallows, and is done
Jesus help that it be seen
And save us all from hell
For I know not whither I go, nor how long I here shall dwell.