1038

Midwinter sun, crept up from the hills,

Strikes a ray into the ancestral tomb

Ravishing the dead upon its sills.

Midwinter sun.

For the rest, this silent darkened womb

Awaits the flicker of a torch which spills

Its unexpected light into the gloom

Of funeral chambers, where the dormant wills

Traced by generations in the gloom

Await the annual coming which fulfils

Midwinter sun.

Brian Hick October 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 15.11.23