Imbolc
In 100 words
Imbolc
7am: Look there.
It’s not just weary constellations,
and the lights of the A66.
This is the first morning I see it -
that place where ancient black meets cold fell tops.
It’s a barely-there glimmer,
a hint,
a tracing I can see because I remember.
Before the coffee’s half drunk, it’s a brave blue line –
dawn undaunted.
The view changes in each blink – enchanted,
liminal, and belonging to me alone.
The new colours astonish, restoring eyes’ ease.
It’s my gift from the slow steady days:
Long night is behind you.
Light is coming.
Hold on, it won’t be long.
Ah, my Qigong teacher was on about imbolc yesterday and I felt so well informed, due to you.
The placement of "astonish" here captures exactly what happens at liminal moments—the new colors don't merely please or satisfy, they fundamentally restore something lost to winter's darkness. Your constraint of 100 words forces precision that amplifies the phenomenology of dawn watching: each phrase carries weight because there's no room for ornament. The progression from "barely-there glimmer" through "brave blue line" to chromatic astonishment mirrors how light actually returns—incrementally, then suddenly vivid. That final triplet ("Long night is behind you / Light is coming / Hold on") functions as both meteorological observation and emotional reassurance, collapsing the distance between seasonal change and human endurance. Imbolc marks the point where hope becomes empirically verifiable rather than wishful projection.