In Chests of Flint

‘Ere dark o’ the sun

Is total, the near-solstice sky flares;

There’s dark honey crystal in the cloudscapes,

Moorland heather petals smeared

On damson jam bubbles and lavender blossom.

Greedy anonymities of grey

Will just as soon steal it all away,

Tuck it jealously away in buried chests of flint.

But it will linger, comfortingly,

Behind my eyelids for a goodly while.

It isn’t all about being somebody,

Sometimes it’s just about

Simply noticing the dying light

… and holding it,

And keeping the faith.

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