'SOLSTICE'
The darkest time in southern hemisphere winter
Wraiths reveal my breath’s warm trail.
I part the biting air,
swaddled,
safe from cold and gloom.
​
Eastward,
blood bathes sea and sky.
A spectral line resolves to sunder depth from height.
Vagueness strives for focus,
rending darkness,
boding light.
​
A bead of brightness rises,
cool and wan:
a pale betrayal,
empty promise,
starved of solace, heat.
Casualty of time and distance;
range and rhythm;
change;
persistence.
​
Here, the briefest visit.
Winter’s soul: the solstice.
Lean and least.
A moment tinged with myth and magic.
Endings.
Each year’s bitter beast.
Harbinger of loss. Memento mori. Melancholy.
Plumbing primal fears,
superstitions,
ancient tears.
​
The effigy of endings flares at sunset,
smoulders,
passes.
​
New dawn purges solstice sorrow, anguish, horror, grief.
Sunlight lingers longer,
bearing hope, abundance, fresh belief.
​
The ashes of the shortest day are fertile,
yielding insights, prospects,
hearts that soar and sing.
The promise of renewal,
fullness,
freshness.
On ...
to spring.