Stonehenge has endured time. This morning the sun rose in the east. Light passed through the massive portals to cast a path marking the winter solstice. Beer and mead were ready for drinking after the season of fermentation. Both were served as food through the winter. I have always called the Winter Solstice the holy day Beermas.
I celebrated it often during the cold months.
Modern historians paint a bleak portrait of the Bronze Age.
They called the time after Meán Geimhridh as the famine months.
Few of them lived amongst the poor of Now and even fewer understand the nutritional value of beer.
I woke this morning to the sun rising over Brooklyn.
The light was gold on the tall buildings to the west.
They told me the time and honored the day.
I drank beer with friends.
I drank Irish whiskey.
It was a good beermas.
Now begins the longest night.
My pillow waits.
Brionglóid milis or sweet dreams.