A Nocturnal on St Lucy's Day
Another day the earth was destined to end passes by. It goes by faster than other days, which is why I'm sat typing earlier the next day, by GMT time. But it's not faster than every day. It was the solstice day. The tipping point. There are always times when it seems the world ends. This poem by John Donne has always evoked for me that sense of personal doom, so sadly, beautifully linked with the winter pulse: 'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks; The sun is spent, and now his flasks Send forth light squibs, no constant rays; The world's whole sap is sunk; The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the n