Introduction
A
bright night is a phenomenon, lost due to artificial lighting,
whereby the sky is producing about ten times as much light as the
stars alone. To be appreciated it must occur on a clear, moonless
night. The landscape is clearly visible and you can read without
candlelight.
Caused
by intense airglow, (oxygen atoms join to form molecular oxygen after
the sun has gone down) happens about once a year.
This
poem explores what might have happened on such a rare night during
the cold month of February in Anglo-Saxon times.
Bright
Night
Wuldorfador
down, bedded for the night,
But
no darkness seen, no moon within sight.
Unnatural
glow, in clear sky so bright,
Twilight
without end, shone on village rite.
Fine
furrows in field, clear cut to be seen,
A
Solmonath night, no snow or moon beam.
Would
dark as Heimlich, most normally mean,
No
clouds overhead, all in a cold dream.
A
strange eerie glow, hanging in the sky,
No
moving lights of, haegtesse to spy.
But
some strange bright bands, like fine fields of rye,
Out
shining the stars, as seen to the eye.
An
aid to travel, folk come to the light,
Halls
and huts emptied, to revel at night.
Soon
mead and ale floweth, with horns held at height,
Wassailing
hooded, folk in drinking rite.
Mead
jug bearing boys, excitedly run,
Quote
the good drychten, let's have us some fun.
Show
me a man who's, horn is fully done,
Long
into the night, a few stalwarts drank,
Their
numbers count down, as midnight watch shrank.
Then
others awake, to join rabble rank,
Crisp
venturing out, to shore up their flank.
At
last ghostly light, it fadeth from view,
Lay
on their bed straw, and left their fine brew.
For
the fields to plough, in the morning dew,
The
morrow's ploughing, might not be so true.
Copyright
Andrew Rea January 2018
