in the filtered light
of a low sun
bathing short winter hours
with a meagre paleness
the brilliance seems so fragile
as it lies across the morning frost
it's light thinner, longer
than at any other time
the last of the dried leaves
shimmer on barren twigs
and the promise of rebirth
seems another world away
and so it is
for time is still shrinking
towards the solstice
the winter cold growing
alongside the eclipsing of the light
but creation knows
this is the last great gasp
the deep in-drawing of breath
before reversal
a game of holding onto the promise
for just a few weeks longer
another day of retiring light
holding back
the renewal
toying with the excitement
the unexpected surprise
the turning
towards incarnation
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