Sounds of the Summer Solstice

This piece is about the suspended, amber stillness of a midsummer dawn and the ten different birds I can hear. 

Sounds of the Summer Solstice

© Veronika Sophia Robinson

The shortest night dissolves,

slipping away before it has fully begun,

leaving me suspended in the amber stillness

of the Summer Solstice.

I float in this exquisite, liminal threshold,

a sacred space where the fading dark

reluctantly yields to the longest day.

This is the great cosmic turning point,

the pinnacle of light before the slow,

inevitable tilt back toward the dark.

Against my cheek, the cool satin pillowcase

offers its refreshing, smooth greeting,

while beneath me,

the thick comfort of the mattress topper

cradles my ageing hips,

soothing the aches of yesterday’s digging.

Through the open window,

the rich, green scent

of rising dew on the meadow grass drifts inward,

sweet and heavy with midsummer promise.

Then, the silence fractures as the dawn chorus erupts,

a deliberate symphony I think of as the Song of Ten.

The wood pigeon begins,

grounding the morning air as its rhythmic,

soothing coo-COO-coo-coo pulses through the valley,

echoing the steady, ancient heartbeat

of the Earth at its peak.

Nearby, a bright, energetic fink-fink

tumbles from the hedge as a chaffinch

darts through the shadows,

its sudden verse awakening the garden.

I lie completely still,

overwhelmed by an immense wave of gratitude

for this rich, grounded life,

breathing in the harmony of this place.

From the old stone wall,

the gentle, repetitive purr of a collared dove echoes, nesting close,

while a sharp, percussive crack-crack-smash rings out;

the industrious song thrush shattering a snail shell against its favourite rock.

The busy great tit joins the rising tide,

its metallic, seesaw tea-cher, tea-cher call

ringing sharp through the cool air.

This chorus acts as a healing balm for the soul,

washing away the noise of the outside world,

celebrating the fleeting moment

when time itself seems to stand perfectly still

at the solar peak.

The golden light spills across the fells as a robin

pours out a tender, silvery, liquid stream of notes,

closely followed by the astonishingly loud,

vibrating explosion of a tiny wren’s trill.

High above, a bold blackbird

launches its defiant, flute-like melody,

completely unbothered

it pinches the early ripening cherries

straight from my trees.

A conversational, chaotic philip-chirrup

erupts from a cluster of sparrows in the foliage,

while the sharp, metallic jak-jak of the jackdaw patrols the rooftop line.

I rest anchored in this nest of satin, feathers, and song, deeply thankful

for the privilege of witnessing this sunrise,

watching the solar fire ignite the fells

as the Sun fully claims the longest day.