... In darkness, and tears, and the gnashing of teeth. The last toasts have been drained, the last bottles drunk in farewell, and the empty glasses and chairs are scattered haphazardly through the darkening hall. Guests say their hushed goodnights, and steal home quietly through the still, warm May twilight to lie awake in their beds, wondering if they should've left; if they could've stayed. Along the waterfront, tipsy couples are singing off-key with their legs dangling off the wharf, trying to serenade some spirit into the cold twinkling of stars that burn a little further away, tonight; reflected clearly in the gently lapping water of the harbour, they seem to blaze with promise, just out of reach.
Around the front lawn of the old hall, the last faithful still wander, mingling stubbornly, refusing to walk away before the end. They've been up all night, and they know they'll be up to see the sun rise on a new day, whenever it comes. With only the muted glow filtering from the heavily blacked-out windows, daylight seems a remote memory; there is a brief moment while the last few stand in the open doorway, shaking hands and clasping one another in final embraces, before the entrance is empty, and the lone figure under the arch waves a tired farewell. As the huge door closes, and one by one the light behind the curtains go out, even the most hopeful have to wonder when they will next meet again in such a place, with laughter and tears and warmth and friendship rolled into the pressing ache in everyone's stomach. A few cry quietly, but most only nod, as if they know that all good things must come to an end.
The night is terribly dark as the gardens finally empty, and the wrought-iron gates close abruptly behind them. All through the town, and down to the moonlit beach, men and women sit silently in the dark, waiting for the dawn. Conversations tail off into nothing, as one by one, exhausted by grief and sorrow, people lay down their heads to sleep, curling up next to one another to ward off the cold of what will be a long night.
High on the battlements of the hall, a lone figure stands tall, as if trying to catch a last glimpse of the sun. The wind whips up around his face, catching unsaid words from his mouth and flinging them high into the air, whispering peace into uneasy dreams in the streets below.
"Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year."
The people sleep, waiting as people have always waited. Waiting for the dawn.
love ya honey, tis fabby.
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