Midsummer, midnight, in the middle of England.
Stars pepper the velvet sky above
a country pub, the Hawk and Dove.

All is still; no cars pass by.
No breeze disturbs the dark leaves of the trees
How still we see the village lie.

Aglow with yellow light,
The windows of the bar
Show silhouettes of drinkers huddled tight.

Ripples of stippled conversation
spill onto Main Street
to mingle with the scent of honeysuckle.

Behind the bar the brass bell rings:
Time, ladies and gentlemen.
Collect your things.
Do you not have homes to go to?

A figure steps out of the shadow
of the church across the way;
hooded,
face scarf-covered,
clothed in grey,
carrying a cardboard box of precious cargo.

Ghostlike, the figure crosses the road
and gently places on the red brick steps of the pub
the little load
then walks away, not looking back.
The moon and constellations melt and slide
as tears begin their tracks.

Soon the pub door creaks open;
a shaft of electric light falls on the box.
The landlady stoops,
peers inside the strange delivery
and gasps, looks around;
no sight, no sound,
of the bearer.

She lifts the swaddled infant into her arms
and carries it indoors.
Heads turn;
The locals huddle round
Dim-lit faces frown:
Who could do that? Why?
Poor thing.
Look outside again – is anyone there?
No sign.
Best call 999.

Time has passed, but folk recall
the newborn in the box.
They ponder where he is today –
Bless his cotton socks.
He’ll be about twelve years old by now,
his childhood almost gone;
they wonder what he says to folk
who ask him where he’s from.