Someone recently wrote something in a newsgroup post involving "thick sunshine". It was something to do with their cat and the way it liked to sit in a pool of "thick sunshine", which I then paused to envisage, light pouring down stairwells like honey, like molasses, warm and tactile, thick solid warmth. Summer sunshine. SUMMER sunshine.
WInter light is different. I am sitting here watching it right now, filtering through trees. It doesn't pour, it stabs - thin sharp spikes of it poke through denuded branches, its solidity nothing like the warm molten semi-liquid falls of summer. Instead, it's brittle, glittering, a promise of the ice to come when the snow falls, sparkling, sharp, cold, like diamonds. If you hold a hand out into it, the warmth doesn't ooze around the skin and wrap itself around the fingers like a glove - winter light falls on you in individual drops, each mote of light different and itself, the air around your hand cool and hard, the pores on your skin individually visible in this uncompromising illumination.
Summer light is lazy dreams, drifting fantasies, alluring promises which may or may not ever come true. Winter light is truth and purity, lean and spare, with dreams enough of its own to share but in a different way - it's like looking at a whole another world, one that is familiar and yet achingly strange, and the promise is simply this: life may be harsh, but if you give it honour then honour will be given back to you.
I love winter. It makes me gather my thoughts and examine my days and become a better person for it.
It's the light, I tell you. It's the light.