The morning mirror shows a gaunt visage, a man twenty
years older than I ever feared I’d be, whilst icy wind whistles past the
unlit glass behind my head, and children fretfully clatter over their
breakfasts below – Medicine taken? PE kits remembered? Lunchboxes clean? A
hundred cares upon cares, and a snoring form dozes before her worries coalesce.
Let her sleep.
And on this morning, the cold grips and death seems close
enough to put out your hand and stroke.
And yet – thirty lifetimes back, when cold was unvitiated by
gas and dark by electricity, when my age was enough to be really dead, and the kids would be at work (none of this endless
learning), and you had one blanket or a bit of fur and the fire on your face would turn your back to ice – then a bit of straw was enough, and a stable a
sufficient shelter and yet – and YET – the light was born.
And the light will be back.
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