And the next line, thanks to a beautiful medieval song from about 1261,
is
“loudly sing cucco.”
Yup.
Those medieval birds were definitely loud.
And knew how to sing.
And enjoy the fact that summer was coming.
And the people who sang it also.
So why Summer is a-comin in,
now,
“amid the snows of winter?”
Actually, for me, it has to do with belief in a return.
You see, there are two ways of looking at winter.
The non-believer drinks a lot,
and drags around,
or is active in sports,
or watches a lot of football.
And waits.
And waits.
And lives in the moment.
Waiting.
To see if it will ever be summer again.
Instant depression time here people.
Or,
you get busy
and enjoy Christmas,
for what it really is.
The birth.
Out of the dark hole comes the seed.
Out of the dark winter of gloom,
and disbelief,
eternal joy.
And you get a small portion of it
by looking for it now.
In the small beauties.
Which is why I don’t put pictures on my page.
Anyone can take a picture,
but it takes concentration,
and time,
to really look at things.
And then look forward.
(To the fact that summer, with heat, mosquitos,
and clothes that smell like chlorine from swimming pools,
is indeed ahead. And also no heating bills, no shoveling snow,
and the glorious feel of sun, high in the sky, shining on your skin,
finally heating the chill out of your bones
slowly creeping through you
from November to May
until, hey presto, “Once upon a midnight chilly,
I spied a field of daffo-dilly”
or something like that.
Wasn’t that that English guy?
you know, what was his name again?
And then, of course, there are the builders of Stonehenge.
Now those guys did it right-
make a procession to the outside of the main circle,
get everybody healed,
or ready for burial,
and then wait, in the dark,
for the priest to appear,
apparently on very high shoes,
with a light,
through the central window,
so that people can see that
on the darkest of the dark nights,
a light always appears…
Which is probably why I’m such a fan of English Christmas-
people on bikes in dyed-brown ski underwear with reindeer antlers,
riding around and around Trafalgar,
and laughing,
and enjoying.
And looking forward.
Or the snow swimmers,
and ice bears,
or the Scots,
in kilt and everything,
(hopefully with long underwear)
marching around Trafalgar counter-clockwise
for hours,
on New Years’ Eve
blowing ear-shattering whistles.
Now that’s some expectation of summer, right?
So, if winter is icumin in,
loudly sing yoo hoo,
and spring will raise the daffodils,
under sky pale blue,
and summer then icumin is,
with tweeting birds and lawn new-mown
then Christmas is the harbinger,
God bless us, every one.
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Quahog on a Tightrope 