Winter Solstice

Winter bracken

Clifftop mound at Winter Solstice

The shadowy ones hauling the Henges upright knew:

As they measured stone for death and wood for life

Against circling stars pinned to the spheres,

That the longest dark is womb to the light.

In this snow-deadened morning the weeping sun

Bleeds into the frozen arms of sky.

Tree fingers grope the mist

That persists in stifling sound and sight

Clinging to the sleeping ground

Long past the low and feeble zenith

That drops meek and swift to the rim of night.

This morning the world sobs under the weight

Of hate. Children have old eyes.

But fractional tilt with the day’s dying,

And we look a breath longer under shy lashes

At our star that burns itself alive

To warm us.

Our days in the sun are numbered;

We won’t wait for the rays of June to stir

Our blood, but stoke our own fires

To become the winter light.

~Polly Oliver (2016)