Friday, 6 December 2013

Age-weakened Sun

The sky is blue and clear, like summer days, although it's paler shade hints at the biting cold quality of the crystalline air. 
Quiet now, and calm, the winds of the recent storm rest, allowing aeroplane contrails to criss-cross the canvas of blue, tinted baby pink by the age-weakened sun. 
It's strength spent by summer excess, the year-old sun is slow to rise and early to set. His solstice death and rebirth approaches day by day, marked by candlelight and ancestral memory of fear and hope. 
A stage below the fading contrails, their journey is mapped by migration movements; wood pigeons, grey, crops bulging with acorn pulp, instinct leading them though rhythms of the turning year.
The birch tree in the garden stands bare, shocked by the late arriving frosts that shatter cells in stem and bud. Last night's raging storm brought winds that cracked the thin branches against the sky like whips. 
The leaves that hung like green and yellow bunting lie torn and scattered now; the aftermath of summer parties.

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