Solstice
by Alison Jones

Once a year, regular as clockwork,
Our faces turn skywards
To greet the invincible sun.
Lion faced heaven strider,
Returning once again in strength,
Flexed in flux against the keening
Wombing dark.

And the bull roars,
Leaning through a constellation
Of centuries; blood shines in the firmament
As hard and sharp as cooked glass.

In the cave, breathing over the architecture
Of the year, the sighs of memories roll
In waves, peaks and troughs
In a loving cup.

Torches spark this boundary place,
The key is in your hands.
Pull on your red cap and fly
Out on soldier’s wings,
To greet your destiny.

From the carcass of the bull
Spring grains of hope,
Ripe for the reaping,
A harvest of love.

*        *        *
Solstice © Alison Jones 2005