Scotland's One Day of Summer

One day in Scotland something was different. The natives took tentative steps outside their clay houses to peer up in awe at a mysterious burning ball of fire in the sky.

What was it? They asked of one another. Some of them started discarding their many layers of clothing. Some others tore off their under clothes and capered in the golden light. Alabaster skin shining as the molten rays of the burning orb in the sky poured onto them.

Some spoke of having seen this ball of fire in the sky before. They called it the Son.

The ice that encased the souls of the Scottish folk melted in this warm yellow light.

Everyone put aside their fighting and instead carried flagons of ale and sweet mead to the green spaces where they caroused with their fellows.

The day, unlike others normally so short and grey seemed to go on forever. As the Son went down at last. People retired to their clay houses again, still abuzz with the excitement of this golden day.

Next day the rain pitter pattered from leaden skies. The sound awakening the Scots folk from their deep slumber. They dragged themselves drowsily to the thick glass windows of their humble clay houses and frowned at the sight.

Hearts hardened again. The previous day's joy extinguished. Heads nodded in resignation at damp routine of living here in the isle of mists.

Some were not broken. They would tell their children of this Son that visited and bought such joy to their meagre lives. Until then they would pray that the Son would come again.