Joint 2nd prize, Post-primary Level.

As the wind swept through the old farmyard rattling the gates and clattering the shutters,

He sat there.

Surrounded by balls of paper strewn with words,

He sat there.

He breathed in and gripped his pen scratch-scratch,

He sat there.

Till at last he stopped. Dipping his head he breathed out, misting in the frostbitten air,

He sat there.

The wind was howling the shutters were crying and the house was moaning,

He sat there.

Standing up, donning his cloak, his hat, his boots, as the rain struck the tin roofs like the crack of a firing squad,

He stood there.

Reaching the pantry he opens the door, smiling with bitter sweet memory at the smell of the food.

He stands there.

Reaching behind the old spices and pots of herbs, he pulled it out. Wrapped in oiled cloth. Straight from the ship.

He held it.

Unwrapping it with the care afforded by that of a lamb or child.

He held it.

As the note was placed under the morning’s milk.

He waited.

The notes of softly sleeping and just then the crying of a baby against the staccato of the night.

He wept.