The winter solstice bonfire wouldn’t light, at first.

Days of heavy rain had soaked the pile, even though it had been cut months ago and the wood was dry enough inside. And much of it was elder, cut back from the hedge and reluctant to catch.

It smouldered, there was smoke, a few sparks, a sad crackle. More paper, more matches, noises of discontent and futility: “it’s too wet, it’s the wrong wood, there’s too much air, there’s not enough air, it’s too late, it’s too dark….”

Three fire witches emerge, with a lighter and boards of something rigid and corrugated. After a judicious dissection and re-formation of a corner of the giant smoky tepee of lank vegetation, and the application of a lighter, the fire-witches address the heap with repeated sweeping bowing gestures, wielding the boards to fan the fire.

The fire catches. It spreads through the pile. Over the tracery of sycamore against the night sky, the smoke billows white and tenuous into the dank, chilly air of midwinter. Brilliant flames shoot skyward. The year, this year which promised and gave so much loss and so much gain, turns slowly, creaking out its bewildering, blistering, beguiling existence through the night, as the fire burns steadily, in spite of the wet, unsuitable fuel.

It burned on through the following  day as well. I tended its last hour as dusk fell, turning in the straggling twigs and prodding the embers buried in the ash back to life. I watched the light fade, and soft rain start to fall, suppressing anxiety as I waited for children to arrive for Christmas, heart aching. And though no returning light is yet discernable in these misty, damp days and nights, for sure the year has turned.

Yule, Christmas, Solstice, New Year…….here’s wishing you all the best. May all beings be happy and at peace.