Solstice. - Poem by Conor Dowd
The Earth is furthest from the Sun
which means the WInter has begun
when the climate changes shape
and shifts a gear,
and it's always cold this time of year
when the Earth adjusts itself in sleep.
The frost is still alive
where the sunshine fails to linger.
I kneel beside the grassy verge
and place my fingers in the soil
and feel the Earth retain her secrets
where time and hibernation feed it.
A cinema inside my head
sees Earth careering through the dark of space,
a blue and green impression in the dark,
revolving at a thousand miles an hour
with our Sun a distant memory
so far away this time of year.
We hardly make a sound
as we swing along an orbit round a black horizon
and beyond it for a rendezvous again
Comments about Solstice. by Conor Dowd
Mary Elizabeth Frye
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