He'd seen them, whispering quietly in the shadows, giggling whenever he looked over. They had been around for as long as he could remember, always smiling, always so carefree. The feathers stood out proudly on their backs, tickling their necks playfully.
He'd often wondered if he could, perhaps, one day grow his own wings, but he knew they were different. They weren't like Mr Charlie the carpenter, or Mrs Patts the baker. Whenever he caught a glimpse of them as a child, he would marvel at their wings to his mother, but she just frowned, creases forming between her eyes.
"You're too old for imaginary friends, sweetheart," she'd say, and he learnt overtime not to mention them anymore.
They flocked around him now, tickling him under his chin and continuing their incessant chatter, flitting around on feet that barely touched the ground. Eyes filled with wonder, their hands reached out to touch his hair, to prod at his skin, to stroke his worn-out clothes. With rosy cheeks above a smile, he held his arms out to them, and together they danced in the moonlight.
Every night after their joyful ritual, he would tread home with them trailing behind. Sometimes, they flew beside him, and only ever carried him once or twice. It would have been disastrous, had anyone been nearby to spot a boy floating six feet above the ground. He'd get home just when his dinner of stew and bread was being served. Sitting at the mahogany table with his mother, they would say Grace together before tucking in.
They tiptoed around the house, observing every painting, every wood-carving for the millionth time. His eyes followed them silently, obediently sipping his milk and chewing his bread. The beans always stopped steaming long before he finished.
There was not much to do after dinner; it was always too dark by then to go outside, and the house was bare, save for a pot above the fireplace, a table set and a hard bed. His mother had problems falling asleep with light, so the fire always had to be put out at bedtime. He would turn towards the open window to gaze at the moon, unable to fall asleep.
Time passed so slowly at those early hours of dawn, the pitch-dark blanket still covering the land asleep. His long black hair fell over lovely russet eyes, teeth just resting on his lower lip. He held his gaze on the majestic moon, never once faltering.
Feeling around in the dark for his stitched notebook and pencil, he wrote,
"Angels, ever bright and fair,
Take, oh, take me to your care."
4th March 2011
He'd often wondered if he could, perhaps, one day grow his own wings, but he knew they were different. They weren't like Mr Charlie the carpenter, or Mrs Patts the baker. Whenever he caught a glimpse of them as a child, he would marvel at their wings to his mother, but she just frowned, creases forming between her eyes.
"You're too old for imaginary friends, sweetheart," she'd say, and he learnt overtime not to mention them anymore.
They flocked around him now, tickling him under his chin and continuing their incessant chatter, flitting around on feet that barely touched the ground. Eyes filled with wonder, their hands reached out to touch his hair, to prod at his skin, to stroke his worn-out clothes. With rosy cheeks above a smile, he held his arms out to them, and together they danced in the moonlight.
Every night after their joyful ritual, he would tread home with them trailing behind. Sometimes, they flew beside him, and only ever carried him once or twice. It would have been disastrous, had anyone been nearby to spot a boy floating six feet above the ground. He'd get home just when his dinner of stew and bread was being served. Sitting at the mahogany table with his mother, they would say Grace together before tucking in.
They tiptoed around the house, observing every painting, every wood-carving for the millionth time. His eyes followed them silently, obediently sipping his milk and chewing his bread. The beans always stopped steaming long before he finished.
There was not much to do after dinner; it was always too dark by then to go outside, and the house was bare, save for a pot above the fireplace, a table set and a hard bed. His mother had problems falling asleep with light, so the fire always had to be put out at bedtime. He would turn towards the open window to gaze at the moon, unable to fall asleep.
Time passed so slowly at those early hours of dawn, the pitch-dark blanket still covering the land asleep. His long black hair fell over lovely russet eyes, teeth just resting on his lower lip. He held his gaze on the majestic moon, never once faltering.
Feeling around in the dark for his stitched notebook and pencil, he wrote,
"Angels, ever bright and fair,
Take, oh, take me to your care."
4th March 2011
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