Twas the evening of solstice, when all through the tribe,
Not a creature was stirring, not even the scribe.
While others were busy, driving their cars,
Faithful old pagans, were viewing earth’s star.
In a field out in Amherst, in ice, stone and snow,
We’d gathered and waited amid stones we would know.
When up on the ice, there rose such a clatter
We turned to the center, to see what was the matter,
She was booted and hatted, and holding a broom,
Speakers, and candles, and umbrella of moons.
“Gather good pagans, in the sunwheel of stone,
Where solstice and sun, mark winter’s full bloom.”
The sun dropped a notch, And further she spake,
Of her words and her waving, much one could make.
“The sun arcs the lowest, this shortest of days,
The sun seems the stillest, from our earthly gaze.”
Our feet were quite frozen, as we slipped and we played,
Watching our shadows, past sun’s fading rays.
Then came the time, when sun lit the rink,
Orange stone setting, past purple and pink.
We all rested quiet as sun slipped away,
Secure in belief of return the next day.
We raised up our flasks, libations we drank,
We clapped in the sunwheel, to send up our thanks.
The priestess spun round with twinkle and wink,
“The solstice makes sense, if only you think.
Come back for the moon, it rises tonight.
“Happy Solstice to all, and to all a good night.”