The ascent of the Sun

By -
The winter solstice wind blew away the unwanted,
turning lead into cobwebs;
grey withered fingers
failing to grip 
the light underneath.

Like my own ribcage has been swept for dust,
a small star thuds
sensing the ascent.

Anticipation rows across the sky,
along my bloodstream.

The morning is the colour of a sheep's fleece; 
not clean, but grazing.

We held on, I held on
with small flames
from fairies and candles - 

But the relief, the relief 
of the day returning,
fields in sight.


LJ Ireton, 2024

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