A moment of stillness. The curtains are partly open. The Christmas tree stands by the window. Mrs Llew has dressed it with its lights which shine into the dark outside. We don’t speak. She rests, as she nurses a heavy cold. The only sound is the tick of the Victorian clock which belonged to my grandfather. There is a pause from yesterday’s storms and their wild winds, which in all their violence still smelled sweet as they swept across Oxfordshire, and our road turned into a river. Darkness without. Darkness within. Darkness in the world beyond our shores. Yet this evening, there is a great Light, and, against it, the thought comes to me as Mrs Llew rests, that the gates of hell will not prevail.
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Happy Christmas, Llew. Well done.
And happy St Stephen’s Day to you and your family, Pooka. Re your comment (which I much appreciate) maybe there is a sense of humour at the heart of things, for our electric lights fused in the middle of last night: easily fixed but not in the pitch dark in a freezing garage, where the works are, and with a fading torch battery. All well now.