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Solstice

Winter bleeds the colour from the fields

And autumn's warmth is lost beneath the roots

Of trees that shiver as bare branches yield

Their starkness to the lingering frost, which shoots

Ice-laden needles over frozen ground

Penetrating deep to the Earth's soul

Which waits, in expectation of the sound

Of Herne the Hunter's distant midnight call

To wake, refuse the torpor of the night,

Sense beneath the mud and broken furrow

The seedling and the rootlet as they fight

Towards the lengthening sun which comes tomorrow.

            Our Solstice fire will rage against the dark

            To bring new life from one eternal spark.

Brian Hick December 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 12.12.24