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Leaving the owl to her silent flight
And the pileate to his lament
Amplified by the stillness of the pure early dark
Rising from the frozen ground,
A pause in the rush of our world,
Climbing the slope of the field in its shadow,
Things of the earth black on the dimming sky
Pierced by the evening's bright planets,
Knowing the peace of our minds in this time
Of the stopped sun, communing with ourselves
When souls have passed over
And wait in the void to be born,
Light a candle for the sun's return.
—Touching upon pre-Celtic Irish myths surrounding the winter solstice.
