“Midwinter spring is its own season
Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,
Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.
When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,
The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,
In windless cold that is the heart’s heat,
Reflecting in a watery mirror
A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.
And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier,
Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but Pentecostal fire
In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing
The soul’s sap quivers. There is no earth smell
Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time
But not in time’s covenant. Now the hedgerow
Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom
Of snow, a bloom more sudden
Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading,
Not in the scheme of generation.
Where is the summer, the unimaginable
Zero summer?”

poem: extract from Little Gidding by T. S. Eliot

Solstice. acrylic painting by clinock.

20 thoughts on “Solstice

  1. Winter makes me think of walking through High Park with you gathering small pieces of wood for the fireplace and coming upon those forgotten sculptures. It was so magical how they just appeared. I love this painting.


    1. Hello dear Mogs, it’s always special when you appear. Thanks for the gentle memory. High Park, so amusingly appropriate name considering…ha…ha…ha. Glad I am that you like this painting my oldest and most lovely buddy.


    1. Press me, touch me, click me,
      wave your nakedness
      focusing deep within,
      until the earthquake…

      “John had
      Great Big
      Boots on;
      John had a
      Great Big
      John had a
      Great Big
      Mackintosh —
      And that
      (Said John)Is

      Liked by 1 person

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