Congratulations to George Davies from Medina High School, who won first place in the Under 18s category of the Wight Fair Writers’ Circle Christmas Writing Competition 2011. A great piece of writing. Ed
You are the moon, your cold, callous half-light reflecting none of the frivolity of the sun’s rays, which are short-lived in the cold, dark throes of European winter. From your perch of solitude amongst stars-a-silver, your dull, platinum gaze penetrates the thick, black, slickblack night in Newport town; your light enough to comfort the citizens, but not so to persuade the hustling men, uptight in long coats, to ease-up and gaze up; for once; back at you.
You feel alone, your morose face clearly visible amongst your heavenly brethren in the crisp, cold, cloudless night, for the winter chill has scared the clouds to flight, leaving you, alone, to console the partially slumbering town.
Cars rumble sleepily in strict single file down the black-as-pitch roads as walkers shuffle down the pavements, always looking down, always neglecting to follow the example of their cloudy exhalations, which wisp up in glistening tendrils to the sky, disappearing before they reach the lofty heights of the dreams of children. Youths shout profanities and obscenities for the ears of all ages to hear in the chill of the night.
Quiet now, as all are bedded at the age-old witching hour of four in the morning. The light of your silvery gaze wanders weakly through the myriad of windows of the houses of the people of the town.
Quiet now, as all are sleeping; the builders, the bookish librarians, the sharp-eyed shop owners (now sightless in sleep), the till managers, the office workers, the policemen, firemen, postmen and postwomen, all slumber blissfully, rising and falling as one.
Quiet now, as the river is still to the surface, reflecting perfectly your pallid white face. The boats do not bob in their secure moorings, the cars do not budge from the cozy parking spaces – even the ‘caw-caw’ crows and rooks are silenced now as if in a druggèd sleep.
Quiet now, as the cats of the frozen night-time prowl, in search of food or foes – their streamlined forms slipping silently, stealthy through grass and padding purposefully over pavements.
From your celestial kingdom you prolong your vigil of solitude, yet, of the Newport town, as you light the frosted, darkened back-alleys with your impartial, indifferent gaze. You see the shops closed, locked, bars – as if in preparation for the onslaught of sinister shadows of the dark night – along the high street, selling all the goods that one could care to imagine, in preparation for the oncoming frantic twenty-fourth-of-December shopping.
You attempt instead to comfort the people of the serene town in their sleep, attempting to filter through the thick, heavy curtains and blinds of their houses. Alas, the people are too uptight, too afraid, to let you, and the night, into their homes. Some, however, leave curtains ajar as they sleep you embrace them with your light.
Looking about their rooms; enjoying, at least for the moment the individuality of each and every room – a fireplace in some, not in others, Christmas trees, posters of pop stars in the girls’ rooms, rap in the boys’, the single or double beds, sleeping alone or in couples or small children with nightmares snuggling with their parents.
But the people are un-grateful, as your light wakes them roughly from their dreams – they close the curtains fully, close you out.
Time has passed. Time is passing. Time will pass.
And time will pass – the town clock finally strikes seven ante meridian and your inquisitive guise turns to one of joy: the first rays of sunbeam have just broken the crest of the downs to the east, warming your barren face, warming the town.
Like country roosters, the town’s alarm clocks go off as one; the orchestra of a thousand or more radios is the music to your ears, and a smile breaks your extra-terrestrial features as the people of the once frozen, once dark, once shadowy, once cold, once slumbering town throw open their curtains and embrace the beginning of a new day.
The sun beats down joyously on the awakening town, and you know that your job, as moon, is complete for the night and that the people can be happy once more. Happy through the days of winter season, the dark season, the cold season.
So let not the darkness of winters’ nights make you grieve, for ‘t is the season to be jolly, in the light of Christmas’ eve.
Image: © Used with the kind permission of Auntie P/a>
