Standing Stones on the Isle of Mull in winter.
The Shortest Day, by Jan Sutch Pickard
This is the shortest day.
A shy sun hugs the horizon;
life is at a low ebb,
wrack piled on the shore,
waves making a litany of endings,
Sap shrinking in bare branches –
intricate but barren against the sky –
sings of life clenched in the corm.
This is the shortest day.
From now on there is more light
day by day; brace yourself for more cold,
but the coming snow will make a clean end,
and prepare the ground for new beginnings.
Under earth, snowdrop and crocus
are coiled like springs.
This is the shortest day –
From now on its gets better.
This is the shortest day.
A shy sun hugs the horizon;
life is at a low ebb,
wrack piled on the shore,
waves making a litany of endings,
Sap shrinking in bare branches –
intricate but barren against the sky –
sings of life clenched in the corm.
This is the shortest day.
From now on there is more light
day by day; brace yourself for more cold,
but the coming snow will make a clean end,
and prepare the ground for new beginnings.
Under earth, snowdrop and crocus
are coiled like springs.
This is the shortest day –
From now on its gets better.