Last Light: For the Winter Solstice
On the shortest day, I walked down to
the garden where, stretched out across
the grass, the out-turned
fingers of
peace received
the night soon here.
Vestigial glow bedecked the trees
and roof-tops sank, the light soon gone.
In the evening cool the
streets were
softly swept
by homeward feet.
But I had left my home to see the light;
I traced its steps from pallid green
treetops to underpass
and marvelled at
its retreat
and dusk’s perfect lull.
Pink clouds settled to evening grey, yet
the story was not sad: the day
was gift, was treasure.
And how glorious!
how perfectly bright the light
set against the dark.
The Consolations of Writing 