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.