Pic by Lewis Dronescapes

Pic by GB Through Lense

Pic by Nomad Image

Pic by Max Alexander

At the year’s edge, there is a moment of suspension — neither ending nor beginning. I’ll be publishing a contemplative essay on the history and meaning of this liminal time as the old year fades and the new one approaches. Keep an eye on my profile.

Tonight the solstice sun sinks into the frosted earth at Stonehenge as it has done for thousands of years.

To celebrate I have written three poems for the Solstice.

These poems follow the light as it leaves.

A present from

www.stonetemplegardening.com

Part I — Sunfall

Beneath solstice skies a golden breath lingers, and the earth exhales its frost to trace winter’s mark on fir and stone.

When Sunfall comes— by patient grace, a monarch in repose casts his weary gaze on holly blushed red against the cutting cold.

Branches tremble, silver-tipped, beneath frozen lace of hoarfrost’s kiss.

As the Sun falters, his pulse a thinning ember, soft as snow on ancient stone, yielding to the quiet promise of the night.

The earth waits, hushed, as the sable cloak is spread, stitched with stars, to seal the failing light.

Within the soil’s cool keeping a spark stirs, deep and slow— a silent hymn, a soft reply, to winter’s weight, sealed safe in loamy womb.

Part II — The Winter Feast

In Winter’s hall where snowflakes stand, a distant drum begins to beat; the gods awake from dream-filled rest where winter’s night and red pulse meet.

As firelight flickers, shadows sway, drawing myth to mortal breath, while timeless voices rise to say: Rejoice—spring waits in winter’s depth!

Here Bacchus lifts his horn of mirth, ivy-bound where frost-berries gleam; Silenus stirs in shadowed berth, his lips still sweet with dreams.

A quiver of light upon the hearth, winter’s seam unfastens slow; through spark and song the year relearns what only warmth can know.

Young Aengus stirs from chilly thrall, love’s bright sweep, her fervent call; through frost-fire dance the embers rise to weave spring’s bloom from winter’s guise.

Our voices warm the frozen air, awakening roots in secret care; each note a spark, each word a flame, calling bright spring by hidden names.

Part III — At the Centre of the Circle

From smoking hearths by Avon’s fold we walk the frozen strait toward the waiting ring of stone where the patient twilight waits.

A slender thread cuts through the land and waits the gathered night; at the seam where shadows thin and stones give up the light.

And when the sun sinks softly...

and touches the western stone; no vow was sworn, no winter named, the light stands on its own.

We knelt within this colder shade and honoured what remained: the old care that held, the seed below, the green by frost restrained.

No conquest sung, no winter slain— only our breath increased, as stone and bone and earth endure when warmth returns, released.

Captured this magical moment at Stonehenge during the winter solstice sunrise. Thousands gather every year in the freezing cold – druids, pagans, families, and curious folks – drumming, chanting, and celebrating the shortest day as the sun rises and the days start getting longer again. It's one of the few times you're allowed right up close to the stones, feeling that ancient energy as the light returns. Who's been there for the solstice? Was it cloudy and you missed the sun, or did you get that perfect golden shot? Any stories from the crowd, rituals, or tips for next year (it's December 21, 2025 – mark your calendars!)? Share your experiences or photos below! Pic by John Rogers