- CONTRIBUTIONS
The Consolation of Youth |
| Anguish, frustration, tormenting despair, Are these all the fields to which we are heir ? Each bright hope destroyed, young lives seem bereft Of sympathy, tolerance, guidance - and yet In each budding heart it bursts through again This flower of faith which follows the rain. It weathers the storm Of doubt, which corrodes The vessels of hope in blood bold and young. It blooms in the draught that flows through each lung, Like fresh, full-bodied wine, potent and strong. These are the gulps of sweet-smelling calm, Breathed gratefully deep, absorbed like a balm, To soothe and revive the soul from the bier The lighting of awe, the thunder of fear. Thus thrives the once-frail flower, now the soul No longer forlorn, Gives reign to new hopes. Many times blows this storm, which shows no relief, Each wind blows a loss and unsalved grief. 'Till blossoms again our symbol of faith Each storm a landmark, with visions of truth, Bodes new wisdom now, means death to our youth. Maturity dawns Storms give way to peace. |
J. BROOKS, 6A.Lit. |
Nor the Moon by Night
He sat in front of the dying fire, rocking himself, dozing contentedly as the night grew older. A soft breeze suddenly fluttered the curtains. He woke suddenly and stared out into the garden, now bathed in a mystic dazzling radiance from the full moon. He turned his head, trying to escape the lure, the taunt of the full moon. He tensed, roused within himself.
Suddenly the outside world interrupted his struggle 'twixt moonlight and fire. Outside in the passage he could hear that someone was about to come into the room. In an instant he was out of the window and running down the garden path. Whatever happened tonight, he must not see anyone. The moon had him in its grip. He must walk. Fresh air might help, but always there would be that ghostly lantern looking down, vacant, yet ever haunting.
In the lane, the high hedges seemed to be held in the sway of the master of the night. He sat down by them and looked at the great globe. Its face was marked as if it held some great secret and brooded over it through the night. It surveyed the passing clouds, tinting them with its majesty as they scurried on their way. The whole world, bowed to the control of the uncanny light shed by the moon.
He stood up, stretched, and walked along the other hundred yards to the village. He walked round the houses, bright and gleaming in the bright rays.
Sometimes he walked through the gardens of the tiny cottages, digging his toes into the soft earth of the flower beds, anything to distract his attention from the moon. He strolled between the back fences of the end cottages. He was tense.
He left his meanderings and took to the lane again. He ran, strengthened by the sultry rays. The air was crisp. Running made him warm.
Suddenly a house, serene and challenging rose from the side of the lane. The garden was a big luxurious one. It lay flat in the moonlight. He was entranced by beauty once more. Yet, of all the houses in this district, this was the one he knew he should not come near tonight. Even so, he crept through the shrubs and hid in the shadows, dodging from one to the other till at last he was in the shadow of the great house itself.
A window glowed its orange light to the back garden. He stopped short, his heart pounding. It was her silhouette he saw black against the orange curtain. He tensed himself nervously. Her form, black against the orange was perfect. His heart beat faster. The window was open. Sliding on to his stomach, he crept on all fours towards the fateful window.
He pounced and was, in a moment, on the high broad window sill. He listened. She seemed to be alone. Suddenly she started to sing. He breathed heavily. He peeped through a chink in the curtains. A table covered with a rich red velvet cloth stood by the window. She sat at the other end, singing at the top of her pretty voice. She was definitely alone. He began to squeeze through the gap, intent on having the blood of his prey; the moon knew no bounds with him. He had squirmed his head through the curtain and was about to spring when in walked a middle-aged stout woman. She stopped dead. Her chin dropped, her eyes rounded. For a second the two stared at each other. She stopped singing. Suddenly the woman rushed towards him. He squeezed from the window, jumped to the lawn and bolted from the garden. The woman threw open the window and screamed her threats at him, but he did not listen. He ran to the lane and scrambled through the village. As he neared his home he stopped, sat on a mound and looked at the moon. He yawned.
The poor cat had once more failed to catch that juicy, luscious tempting bird.
D.A.B., 5S.