Midsummer

Summer Solstice in the Northern Hemisphere. The longest day. I have been unable to sleep. Midsummer, it is called, as in Shakespeare’s play. Perhaps old Puck, the pagan trickster, has been about. Why else should I wake each night, my head filled with images. Fairies and Sprites and Hobgoblins. There is a tricky chthonic frivolity associated with Midsummer, the time betwixt planting and harvesting. June’s full moon, I just read, is also called the Honey Moon. I prefer that.

I am being called out tonight. What mischief there lie? I shall take Puck’s apology to the audience in the play’s last scene as my own.


If we shadows have offended,_Think but this, and all is mended,_That you have but slumber'd here_While these visions did appear._And this weak and idle theme,_No more yielding but a dream,_Gentles, do not reprehend:_if you pardon, we will mend:_And, as I am an honest Puck,_If we have unearned luck_Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,_We will make amends ere long;_Else the Puck a liar call;_So, good night unto you all._Give me your hands, if we be friends,_And Robin shall restore amends.
(Act v. Scene i.)