Midsummer weather and wild flowers. And the poetry of war.

It’s the summer solstice - officially midsummer! People gathered last night to celebrate and to see the sunrise this morning. Glen Michael Herbert, a woodcarver known as Herbie to his friends, summed up the draw of the summer solstice:

“It’s a spiritual thing that people of all faiths and none can embrace,” he said. “I think it’s about feeling the wheel of the year turning, enjoying the light, appreciating nature. Most of all, coming together.”

Those who know and analyse such things say that they expected  a good turnout because the weather has been good and, possibly more importantly, the solstice falls on a weekend. 

When I went out running this morning it was already warm and sunny - 25+°. The dog-walkers I met almost all commented that they probably wouldn’t be able to walk their hounds later as it would be far too not for them. I went home, showered, loaded some washing into the washing machine and eventually had breakfast. These days as we breakfast quite late I suppose I should call that meal “brunch”, a modern combination of breakfast and lunch. 

The footpaths all bordered with flowers which I am reliably (I hope) informed are called “fox and cubs”.

Yesterday as I returned from my run, I had a message from Granddaughter Number Two suggesting I meet her and her mother for “brunch” at a local cafe, as we have often done on a Friday morning over the last few years. I showered and dressed in haste and set off just in time to catch a bus. I would happily have walked but the bus was there: it would have been churlish not to make use of it.

Today, by the time I had hung washing out to dry, the cloud had moved in. We are forecast thunderstorms but they haven’t materialised yet. However, about half an hour after I pegged the washing out it began to rain. I blame the neighbours: she has been watering plants and he promised/threatened to cut the grass. 

Out in the war-torn wider world, Gaza has been producing poets. Even in the midst of conflict, creation can flourish. Here is a work by someone who signs himself simply Saleh:

When the Sea became a Wall

When we were displaced,

The sea was near - like a window escaping

From the memory of home.

And winter was a pure ritual, 

Cleansing the streets of the heart

From the footprints of fear.

We walked with no bags, 

Except for a suitcase of silence,

Drawing our dreams on the sand, 

Leaving them to the tide

So that exile would not return them.

Winter, the friend of exiles,

Eased our burden,

Rearranged our voices,

And hid our tears

Beneath the shawl of the wind.

Whenever I whispered to the sea ‘where am I?’

The waves replied, 

‘You are not here,

But do not be afraid.

The homeland dwells in poetry,

And poetry is never defeated.’

And here is one by Sameh Shahrouj:

“To the Soldier Who Points a Gun at Me”

You think I’m here to die.

You think that’s all we know how to do—

bleed, bury, break.

But listen.

I grow things.

Tomatoes in rusted cans.

Hope in children who don’t know what the word means yet.

I build—walls, stories, mornings.

I fix roofs with one hand and hold my daughter’s hand with the other.

And you?

You carry a gun like it’s your purpose.

But I’ve seen men become ghosts

long before the trigger is pulled.

You call this land a threat.

I call it history .

The call to prayer. The school bell.

The pot of lentils boiling over.

Don’t mistake my softness for surrender.

I don’t need to shout to be strong.

The fig tree in my yard

has stood through three wars

without raising its voice.

You—

with your steel and fear,

your borrowed power—

you patrol streets looking for danger

and miss the beauty flowering between the cracks.

You fear death.

I fear forgetting how to live.

So if you shoot,

know this:

I wasn’t born to hate.

But I won’t vanish to make you comfortable.

I won’t flinch so you can sleep easier.

I am not your victim.

I am not your enemy.

I am the reminder

that even under occupation,

a man can love too fiercely to be erased.

That’s all.

Life goes on. Stay safe and well, everyone!