Richard Carey

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Winter Solstice

WINTER SOLSTICE

For a long time we gazed through glass doors.
Sheep drifting from left to right,
Their teeth brushing groomed grass,
Always, it seemed, left to right
A circumnavigation of the flat earth
Always exiting stage right,
Allowing the glittering green to recover.
Perversely the magpies glide right to left,
Swooping low in twos and threes,
Stabbing their ebon beaks
At the sheep's leavings.

At last the bitter draft drove us
To fold paper strips from last weekend's magazine,
Caulking the door cracks, top to bottom,
Constructing new but mysterious narratives,
Powerful magics to keep winter's bite at bay,
While we invoked gods of fire and smoke,
Stuffing our stove with wooden offerings
In exchange for warmth.

It's nearly the littlest day,
Earth more sodden than hard as iron
Though water again turning our teeth to stone.
The unconquered sun in quiet reverie,
Turns his face to begin his quickening return.
The earth complies with Sol's dilation,
Not immediately understanding
The blessings she receives for her obedience.
The sheep, on whom I waste my empathy,
Perhaps know more but remain patient.

Why not days like these for quiet contemplation
Where outside, Winter rules,
When endorphins are low,
Where fields fold and unfold in horizontal light,
Where Bunjil hangs solitary above dark trees,
Where Eastern Rosellas rush small Eucalypts,
Farm Sparrows quarrel under verandahs,
When a warm blanket of silence cloaks our sloping shoulders
And thoughts slowly smoulder.

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