Lament for a Solstice With Broken Cloud

I love that moment on a solstice sunrise. The expectation, floating like croutons on the chill in the air. The silence, broken only by the birds song, traffic on the M1, and the realisation you're on the Luton flight path again.

And then scanning the horizon for a break in the cloud. And, as the mystic orb rises above the horizon and the clouds melt, we see our shadows, marking the dewy grass between us and the noble railway sleepers that make up the Great Trilithon of ancient (2009) Duckhenge.

And that's when we realised we were all facing the wrong way again. Same as every year. By the time we'd reassembled on  the southwest side of the duck pond, the moment was lost.

Another half hour and we expect the Piper at the Gates of Dawn, Herne the Hunter and assorted dryads and wood elves to turn up. They do struggle with British Summer Time.