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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Solstice.

These are the times when seas

Are flicker-black and silver white;

The icy gears of time and colour

Whir, click and gyre

Inside my head and out –

I hear them, feel them slip, miss,

Come alive on this, the least-light day

Of calendar’s small, moon-ruled patterns.

Horizon birthed skyline is a slow bonfire

Between present-grey and lack of clarity.

Did nature bring the reflective

Stillnesses of winter?

Or did we invent them?