The clock turns slowly. The hour is at hand.

The widow breathes her last damp lungful of air

and produces,

as if on cue,

a screaming, unformed and ravenous offspring

to whom we offer our services, pledge our loyalty and celebrate

its arrival like a Medieval first born royal son.

 

The cold, wet night is grey and quiet,

all is hush as the muted labour pains continue

throughout the night and I watch from the vantage

point of my front step, trying to light

in vain

a cautious celebratory cigar,

as midwives carrying a bottle of cider, a party pack of Irish

stout and plenty of towels, run around in quiet panic

as the possibility of a still birth runs through their minds.

The men, urged to join in the delivery, shake their heads

for a while, preferring not to think

of what this offspring will do to the family budget.

 

All is quiet, just the faint cackling of a Magpie

who has forgotten the decorum of the occasion,

and the owl who lives in the church hooting its opposition

to an interloper causing havoc on its dark filled territory,

are the only noises to be heard, except the faint wheeze

of my cigar as it finally gasps into life.

 

In the distance the first warning shot is fired.

The pre-emptive strike of an outlawed Chinese bomb

shakes the foundations and I feel for those

who wonder if the world will end tonight.

 

The Earth is still again and yet,

out of the corner of my eye,

I see the floating fire driven lantern crawling

across the Bootle sky and its twin just peeking over the top

of the Church spire and the owl, sensing dangerous

hostility to the serenity of its hunt, eyes the

Magpie in hungry, desperate greed.

I follow the line of the glowing Chinese lanterns

and race them across the Heavens with the tip

of my cigar. Winning comfortably, I then chase them

as if coming out of nowhere

like a Spitfire gunning down the evil

of a Mechasmit that had the cheek to fly

across the Bootle skies.

 

Then slowly a splash of explosive colour startles the stillness

and the night is awash with golds, greens and red,

twelve bars and bangs of exotic blues

and rainbow shades that fill the very air

with a memory and a taste of a Bonfire night

that went before.

The smaller creatures, who not know

the folly of Time in men, scurrying for cover and perhaps thinking

to their own Gods that see over them and question

the logic of New Year being celebrated in the cold, damp

English soil when it seems far better to praise and give thanks when

the darkness runs out of steam and the first flowering bud yawns freely.

 

The sound of mighty horns being sounded from Bootle Docks

seem in time to the music and a close encounter

is avoided

above the exploding sky

and the countdown begins for the birth to happen.

Like an expectant father pacing up and down

and realising just what a waste of space he is being.

I listen as the sound of a family singing badly the

opening notes of a song only ever half remembered

but fully committed to its meaning, at least until

the phone bill comes along.

 

At what point will this new arrival spit in the face

of its God parents now that its mother has breathed her last?

At what point will it declare its hatred for us as we forbid it

from granting favours to what we believe to be the less deserving?

Or will it surprise, open up its heart and beg us

to do the same and with startled astonishment

we find all we had to do was love.

I close my eyes, I stub out the final motion

of a vanquished Spitfire and I knock on the door

offering coal, salt, coins and bread…

and with a smile I wish you a Happy New Year

and tell you I love you.

 

Ian D. Hall 2014..