Last Night I Had A Dream That Polly Jean Was Our Queen

We are severed: families divided, neighbours made strangers, and our leaders blinded by some uncivil war. From the west, across the paths that scar the gold and green felts, she comes. A Queen in waiting. The Arch High Priestess of a fractured island.
Standing atop her stage, 50 feet high, she looks out to the sea where unfamiliar winds rush in from the continent. With them, arrives a diversity of colours, aromas, and tongues. Behind them follow the ghosts of tens of thousands of children, lost.
These strange gales move not one quill on her crown of feathers. She opens her mouth wide, beckoning the foreign air to fill her lungs and, when she has drunk enough, she raises her golden saxophone to her lips and begins to tell our story.

It is an honest tale of places and peoples forgotten. A tale that weaves the ancient with the progressive. A past and future that has become a forgotten country, laid down in the vibrations of the reeds.
And with each note she plays, England shakes.