a winter solstice poem

Each solstice and equinox in the turning year, for maybe 10 years now, a poet friend and I have been writing a poem to send to each other. I notice that, for me, the midwinter solstice is a very powerful event. And – the world feels pretty dark right now; but after tomorrow, here in the northern hemisphere, we are creeping imperceptibly back towards the light, with the sun rising and setting just a little further north each day now, till the spring equinox when it will be rising due east and setting due west.

At this time, it seems right to honour what has passed or is passing, before turning towards the light. At this time, perhaps we can all invoke the spirit of peace, justice and care for all beings in this troubled world of ours.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll be heading out to say hello to this little dolmen: Ti Ar Boudiged, House of the Fairies, sits tranquil and inviting, embracing, as it has through the centuries. It is sited with its entrance towards the southeast, place of the rising sun at its furthest southerly extent on the solstice.

So here’s to the returning light; and a glass to midwinter’s turning, and to love, care and friendship – things that might pull us through these dark times. I have loved the warmth and engagement as I’ve ventured into the Substack playground as a newbie: thank you for your company.

And this is now an old solstice poem of mine, but it remains my favourite. Those of you who have seen it before, forgive my indulgence.

You can read more about the solstice here on my website (skip the first poem!)

At the Threshold

First you need to shed all you know
or can name
then you need to step out of
your shoes, your shadow, your own
light, and your home. Strip
naked as the four winds
and forget being upright
unless you want to dance, and then
dance the stone row to the stone circle
and allow the sky to take your voice. 
This is the season of yew and periwinkle
of Persephone's descent 
to the winter god.
Watch for the barn owl
and Hecate at the crossroads
and prepare to hang from the World Tree
until you are sobered by silence
and stillness, and the great
white unending song of the spheres.
Kneel on the earth until
you become a reed, a snail, a fox,
another word for truth.
Be the berry in the dark stream
that the water bears away.
Transformed into all
you may be, step forward and cross
the threshold, gateway to gods
and ancestors, to what will endure
beyond all that you can imagine
of the play of particle, of wave –
take the hand that's offered, step through 
this gateway to the light that burns within
which now you’ll never lose again.

  © Roselle Angwin