mik morrisey
Winter Solstice
In the Northern half of the world, the longest night is over.
I hate the barren, winter darkness. In times past there were sacrifices on the longest night, tiny wrens in Celtic countries, white animals in Scandinavia. I haven’t sacrificed anyone. I invited the neighbours in for wine, and got their kids to burn the paper clocks we made for the occasion.
In these days of electricity, and central heating, with daylight lamps, insulation, hot chocolate and Snuggies, even with all that coziness, I crave the heat of the sun on my skin. I miss the simple pleasure of earth that feels warm beneath my feet.
There is beauty in deep winter, the filigree elegance of bare branches, a walk through streets that gleam with rainy reflections. There are the clear nights which let us see stars, an occasional icy ring around the moon. Still it feels right to yearn for more daylight hours.
Last night was the longest night, we partied, and we burned the clocks. This morning’s sunrise was more golden than the one before.
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