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..