The midsummer sunrise has struck me
with its tragedy the two times I have watched.
As if the waking sun could see
all the way to winter, as if the wind
that blows so bitter from the north
had already come and iced the ground.

The Celestine must see
that we are more wind than sun.

My tears freeze when I weep
within my grove, the only place
that seems a shelter now,
though it be but a lee from cold
that howls down from the hills that we create.

With nothing but the creaking of the trees
and the hooting of the errant owl,
this midsummer sunrise seems more fitting
for a funeral day. Here, out of the wind,
I shall ever rest, lest I should join its wake.

Penned by my hand on the 23rd of Midsummer, in the year 90 MA.