Nine months before Christmas – today’s the day when some churches celebrate when (according to Luke’s gospel) Gabriel the angel told Mary she was going to have a special son. When I wrote this poem, I was thinking of how dates in the church calendar fit in with the seasons of the year, particularly in medieval Britain and Ireland.
It’s not intended to be a declaration of any particular set of beliefs.
Fiat Lux secundum calendarium
In medieval England March 25th was reckoned as New Year, Equinox, and Annunciation
In the olden days the year began in equinox,
a point of balance between light and dark,
when spring exploded in a single cell,
finding a home inside a womb.
In the olden days the year began in innocence:
a meeting between a teenage girl and light,
an orgasm within|beyond the body,
a fiercely wanted pregnancy; a song.
The sun’s a little older now, the earth
more tired, almost exhausted. It’s hard
to paint wings when feathers are at a premium.
It’s hard to know a dinosaur from a bird.
It’s hard to read a fossil from a book.
It’s hard to know an angel from a story.
It’s hard to believe in mysterious strangers.
It’s hard to say yes when you’re on your knees.
In the olden days the year began with spring
and people knew their lives sprang from green shoots.
Something’s on the wing. The earth tilts
at the sun in its carousel. Wake.
Chris Fewings
I could wax lyrical about the Gregorian and Julian calendars, and why the UK tax year begins on April 6th, but I don’t want to bore you. Fiat lux secundum calendarium means ‘Let there be light according to the calendar’ (I hope).