Poems of the Winter Solstice: Reflections on Renewal, Ancient Rituals, and Seasonal Change
Welcome to Stone Temple Gardening where we dig deep to cultivate new understandings of our past. Today is January 1st of 2025 and I wish all my readers a Happy New Year!
As the year has turned towards its quietest moments and the world gathers itself in the arms of winter and the promise of a new year, I want to pause and thank each of you dear readers, for walking this literary journey with me.
I embarked upon this blog as a humble dalliance, a vessel to navigate the vast, mysterious seas of my affection for ancient sacred sites. I had steeped myself in the lore and learning of these places before I ever sank my first spade into the fertile soil of my knowledge and imagination. I couldn't predict what treasures might emerge from that dark earth. My initial posts, I confess, were as arid and scholarly as the deserts of academic texts - save for one early essay on Glastonbury where I allowed my prosaic wings to soar into the figurative heavens. This flight proved curiously liberating, like a bird breaking free from its cage.
It was then that the first green shoot of realisation dared to push its worm-like head through the tightly rolled turf of conventional academic discourse. Here was a truth I could not ignore: I possessed a PhD in history, yet I had always felt the icy grip of academic writing as a straitjacket, a land of crushing surveillance where one's career and adherence to scholarly norms overshadowed the generous warmth of novel thought and the delightful dance of informed speculation. I was beginning to find my voice, to hear the echo of my own song amidst the silence of the ancient stones that so long ago – at Avebury - bedazzled my young mind.
I realised that much of the writing in this muddied field was not only devoid of warmth but also of joy, turning the vibrant tapestry of our past into a monotonous chant. I began to believe that archaeology, with its bones and bogs, could greatly benefit from the touch of poetry, from a narrative that didn't divorce the reader from the humanity of those whose spirits still murmur through our lands. Thus, I transformed my style from the rigid academic to the flowing, living figurative, drawing from the well of my stoney muse.
Now, my words do not merely recount history; I am weaving with it, winding through the fogs of time to bring the past into the realm of the present. I invite you, dear reader, to join me in this exploration, where the dusty discourse of academia is replaced by the living breath of poetry, where each post is a step further into the heart of the earth, into the souls of those who once walked these sacred lands.
I christened my blog "Stone Temple Gardening" as a peccadillo, a whimsical diversion, a pastime that was as much for my own delight as for anyone else's. Over the decades, my wanderings had taken me across the Neolithic landscapes of Europe and the far East, where I gathered the seeds of thought from countless sites of wonder. These places, each with its own silent story, stirred ideas within me about their purpose, their precise placement in the past’s grand design.
I became a seer of the stones, noting the animal visages, the salmon of wisdom whose visions seemed to swim from the very rock itself. I wasn't the pioneer in these observations, yet I unearthed new ones, faces and figures not yet enumerated in the crusted annals of academia. At Callanish, I discerned another recumbent earth-figure, slumbering in the landscape; at Uley Long Barrow, I beheld the bull's head etched into the lintel stone, as if the living rock itself had sculpted it. In caves, I found lithophones, stones singing their ancient songs, and in circles, alignments that whispered of celestial dance.
Some of these revelations I've woven into words, others still lie dormant, waiting for their moment to bloom into narrative. This blog has become a sanctuary for my musings, a liberation of sorts. Here, I am unbound, free to let my thoughts take root and flourish, to nurture the garden of ancient mysteries with the water of imagination and the sunlight of discovery. Each post is a step further into my little sanctified grove of words where the past and imagination intertwine, where the stones speak, and I, at last, am free to listen and to share.
Since my first post in August, something small but wonderful has happened. This humble corner of the internet has grown into something extraordinary—a gathering of minds, hearts, and imaginations. I have had many thousands of readers over many posts, and what is more some have you have decided to stay!
Today, we celebrate together a small but meaningful milestone: 110 subscribers to Stone Temple Gardening, who enjoy my work so much they have decided to come in, smell the flowers, touch the grass and speak with others in the quiet comfort of our virtual garden. Each of you who have joined our circle represents a spark of curiosity, a question spoken to the earth, a connection across time and space. You are all so very welcome.
Through these months over 22 long form posts, we’ve explored together the ancient echoes of long barrows, the enigmatic alignments of henges, and the cosmos circles carved into the Neolithic landscape. Together, we’ve traced the forgotten paths and contemplated the mysteries that linger in stone and soil. Your engagement—your comments, emails, and quiet reflections—has been as precious to me as the monuments themselves. As the New Year begins, let us celebrate in the old ways: with gratitude for the light that lingers and hope for the brighter days ahead.
Today, I’m excited to share something a little different: three of my poems inspired by the Solstice season. Below, you’ll find an introduction to the themes and forms I’ve explored in these works. Some elements may benefit from explanation, and I hope the introduction provides helpful context.
As always, I’d love to hear from you. Please feel free to reply to this post, share your thoughts, or join the discussion about the ideas we’re exploring together. The true beauty of this work lies not just in the writing but in the connections it fosters—a modern circle where creativity and reflection align.
Here’s to 110 and counting brilliant minds in harmony and the many more yet to join us in the year ahead. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being a part of this journey.
Warm regards,
Alexander Peach
Stone Temple Gardening
The Circle of the Year: A Meditation on the Winter Solstice in Three Parts.
In time’s rich tapestry, where the threads of seasons interweave, we find ourselves drawn into the heart of "Winter's Promise," "The Winter Feast," and "At the Centre of the Circle" — a trilogy of poems that step through the chill of winter into the embrace of spring. These verses are not merely words on a page but an attempt to convey the grandeur of the earth's eternal cycle, sung through the ages with the breath of ancient myths and the pulse of human ritual. I wanted to bring a mythic element to the poem so I have used later classical gods to illustrate this theme as the Old Ones of the Neolithic have long lost their names in Time's deep well of forgetfulness.
We begin with "Winter's Promise," where the solstice sky unfurls like a golden scroll, its light a lingering kiss upon the frost-bitten earth. Here to set the mythic tone, the god Aether is introduced. In ancient Greek mythology, Aether (or Ether) is the personification of the upper air that the gods breathe, often described as the pure, fresh air of the heavens. Aether is considered the bright, glowing light of the sky and is sometimes equated with the substance that fills the space above the terrestrial sphere. He is the offspring of Erebus (the personification of darkness) and Nyx (the goddess of night), embodying the light that contrasts with his parents' darkness. Aether is thus symbolic of the celestial light and clarity of solstice night, an elemental force that separates the divine from the mortal, existing in the space where the gods dwell.
Next we are introduced to the Celtic myth of the Solstice Sun or Holly King, a monarch of the season, who bows to the night, his gaze heavy with the weight of winter's darkness yet promising the dawn of renewal and the rise of the Oak King of Spring. The poem's lines are constructed with an intentional rhythm that mirrors the earth's own slumber, a prelude to awakening. It's a quiet celebration of the promise hidden beneath the icy veneer, where life lies dormant, whispering of rebirth.
From this serene mid-winter meditation, we move into the revelry of "The Winter Feast," where Winter's Hall becomes a stage for mythological figures to emerge. This poem brings together the mythic and the human. Archaeology tells us that great feasts took place at Durrington Walls near Stonehenge at the Winter Solstice and I wanted to reflect this ancient tradition in the poem. We first meet Bacchus who is the Roman version of the Greek god Dionysus, the lord of wine, festivity, and theater. He is associated with the ecstatic, liberating aspect of hedonism that the feast embodies, representing both its civilizing and destructive potentials. Bacchus is often depicted as youthful, effeminate, and accompanied by satyrs, maenads, and other followers in wild processions known as Bacchanalia. He's the son of Zeus and Semele, with myths surrounding his birth, death, and resurrection, symbolizing the cycle of nature, particularly the growth and harvest of grapes; looking forward to harvest being a theme of this poem cycle. Bacchus embodies the joy of life, fertility, and the release from self-consciousness through wine and celebration, but also warns of the chaos and madness that can follow excess. Next we meet Silenus, known as the tutor, companion, and sometimes foster father to Dionysus. He is the oldest, wisest, and often the drunkest of the satyrs, with horse's ears and tail, symbolizing the wild, untamed aspects of nature and human behaviour. Silenus is famed for his prophetic powers, but his wisdom is usually revealed only in moments of divine drunkenness. Their songs, like the drums of the earth's heartbeat, announce the end of winter's reign. This festive poem is a song of celebration, each line a stroke of colour in the feast of life, where the gods and mortals share the same breath, the same joy. Here, the language is rhythmic and vibrant, echoing the communal spirit, the collective sigh of relief as winter's grip loosens for the promise of spring.
Finally, "At the Centre of the Circle" invites us into the sanctity of ritual, where time is not just observed but honoured at the altar of ancient stones. The Sun, now setting, paints the sky with hues of the mythic. Vesper represents the evening, the time when the sun sets and night begins to take over. As the evening star, Vesper heralds the end of the day, bringing a moment of peace and transition from day to night. In mythology, Vesper is often seen as the brother of Lucifer (the morning star, or Venus at dawn), illustrating the duality of Venus's appearance in the sky. Vesper is not a major deity but holds symbolic significance, embodying the calm and reflective mood of dusk. This poem is set at the Solstice ritual in Stonehenge at sunset, so the mythic character fits my poetic vision. Vespar’s sacred fire, marking the transition with a blaze that speaks of endings and beginnings. This theme is underlined in death of The Old King, with his wisdom of the year past, giving way to the New King, whose green flame heralds the new cycle of rebirth. The poem's rhythm is a procession, measured and weighty, each step a testament to the passage of time, each word a stone in the circle of life, death and rebirth. Here, the imagery of stars and stones, of green life beneath frost, weaves together the past with the future, the mortal with the divine.
These poems, birthed from the endless cycle of the seasons, use the language of myth, the imagery of rebirth, and the cadence of ritual to paint a portrait of time's passage. They sing of the dance between darkness and light, cold and warmth, death and reincarnation. Through the use of poetic language, they invite readers not just to observe but to participate in the timeless celebration of the earth's renewal, connecting us to the cycles that have, and will, define our existence. Each poem, with its unique voice, contributes to a symphony that celebrates the eternal promise of spring, a bargin whispered through the ages, through the frost, through the feast, through the circle of stones. I hope you enjoy them.
Winter’s Promise
Beneath solstice skies,
a golden breath lingers,
and the Earth exhales its frost,
to trace winter’s smile on fir and stone.
Sunfall—
by Aether’s grace,
a monarch in repose,
casts his sleepy gaze
on holly blushed red
against the cold.
Branches tremble, silver-tipped,
beneath the frozen lace
of hoarfrost’s kiss.
as the sun king falters,
his pulse a dying ember,
soft as snow’s touch on ancient stone,
yielding to the quiet promise of the night.
The earth waits hushed,
as night spreads her sable cloak,
stitched with stars
to shroud the fading light.
beneath the year’s frost-laden sigh,
a spark stirs deep within the earth.
a silent hymn,
a soft reply
to Winter’s weight from spring’s rebirth.
The Winter Feast
In Winter’s Hall where snowflakes rest,
A distant drum begins its beat;
The gods, from slumber, stir in jest,
Where Winter’s night and life's pulse meet.
As firelight flickers, shadows sway,
Drawing myth to mortal breath,
Where timeless voices rise to say:
"Rejoice for Spring and Winter's death!"
Here Bacchus chants his hymns of mirth,
Ivy-bound, frost berry gleams.
Silenus stirs in shadowed berth,
His lips still sweet with Summer's dreams,
A quiver of light upon his hearth,
He unpicks the thread of Winter’s seam.
Sweet Aengus stirs from chilly thrall,
To Love’s bright sweep, its fervent call.
Through frost-fire dances, sparks take flight,
A hymn of warmth to pierce the night,
To weave Spring’s bloom from Winter’s blight.
Their songs ignite the frozen air,
Awakening roots in secret lairs.
Each note a spark, each word a flame,
Exposing Spring’s long-hidden name.
The ice-bound Earth begins to wake,
As shadows stretch and bonds unmake,
A tender shoot, a green repair,
Emerges soft from Winter’s snare.
At the Centre of the Circle
we arise from Durrington’s embered hearth,
and tread the frost-bound path—
to the circled watch of ancient stones
where Time’s fateful fade is cast,
a golden thread to cleave the night,
a fiery shaft through stone and spark
a molten bridge where time is crossed.
and the Sun sinks softly,
its final rays ignite the western arch,
a sacred blaze—
as if the gods, with gilded hands,
had etched the horizon with molten fire,
their luminous touch a vow to end Winter’s reign,
as the year exhales its final breath.
kneeling in shadow, we bow our heads—
to the Old King’s wisdom,
to the New King’s green flame,
to the silent, stirring soil,
its rhythm a covenant, eternal and unbroken,
that Earth and stone and wood and bone
will warm once more
In the Sun’s Sacred Smile.
for those who harken to Winter’s will,
a breath of green begins to beat
beneath the beaded frost’s retreat.
And Vesper paints the twilight sky,
a steadfast circle, a season's sigh,
as stars bear witness to the Holly King's call,
and timeless stones mark Winter's fall.
Alexander Peach New Year's Day 2025
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