You can’t count on it in the Western Isles. We had some yesterday but today it’s back to dreich, grey and wet. But that is what makes it so precious when the clouds relent and the winter sun breaks through. That, and the landscapes and seascapes it illuminates. Because wherever you are on the islands you are never far from somewhere stunningly beautiful.
Molly Fisk is not from here, in fact she is a Californian poet. But I thought this poem expressed the fleeting joy of winter sun beautifully, and she has graciously given us permission to reproduce it.
How valuable it is in these short days,
threading through empty maple branches,
the lacy-needled sugar pines.
Its glint off sheets of ice tells the story
of Death’s brightness, her bitter cold.
We can make do with so little, just the hint
of warmth, the slanted light.
The way we stand there, soaking in it,
mittened fingers reaching.
And how carefully we gather what we can
to offer later, in darkness, one body to another.
To find out more about Molly’s work, check out her website here: http://www.mollyfisk.com/
I’m really looking forward to seeing your responses to this theme, so I will shut up now and let the winter sun do the talking. Spencer