The ascent of the Sun

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