Let yourself get comfortable now.
However you are lying or resting.
And let the day you've had begin to loosen and slip away.
There is nothing to do now.
Nowhere you need to be,
Nothing to solve or carry or hold on to.
If your eyes are still open,
You can let them close.
If you drift off somewhere in the middle of this,
Never hear how it ends.
That is exactly.
.
.
As it should be.
You don't have to follow the story.
You don't have to remember any of it.
You only have to let it carry you.
Way a slow,
Wide river carries a single leaf.
Turning it gently.
Taking it nowhere in particular.
And in no hurry at all.
Take one slow breath in.
And let it go,
Long and easy.
Breathing in softly.
And letting it out.
Slower still.
And now,
Let's go somewhere quiet together.
Let's go to a small town a long time ago.
At the close of a still autumn day.
It is the blue hour.
That soft,
Unhurried hour when the sun has already slipped down behind the hills.
And the whole sky is deepened to the dim,
Dusty blue.
Of dusk.
The first call of the evening settles over the rooftops.
Gently as a hand laid on a shoulder.
The air smells of wood smoke and of damp,
Fallen leaves.
And underneath it all.
Faint,
Clean edge of a frost that won't arrive until the small hours.
Long after the whole town is asleep.
And the town is settling.
You can almost feel it settling all around you.
All down the winding street the day is quietly folding itself away.
The last of the light is draining,
Soft and slow,
From the tops of the chimneys.
And one by one in the little green meadows.
The warm gold of candles and firelight.
Beginning to glow.
Were standing at the top of the high street.
The cobbles run gently downhill toward the river.
The stones are worn smooth and round from a hundred years of footsteps.
And they hold the last of the day's coolness.
Nothing moves quickly here.
Nothing moves quickly at all.
And then,
From a low green door set in the side of an old stone house,
The lamplighter steps out into the evening.
He's an old man.
And he is in no hurry.
Has walked this same round every evening for more years than he can easily count.
And his body knows the way of it,
The way you know the way to your own bed.
In the dark.
He pulls the green door softly shut behind him.
He settles his coat.
And he lifts and rests against his shoulder.
Tool of his trade.
A long slender brass pole.
Taller than he is.
The small hook at the top.
And a little steady flame burning at its very tip.
No bigger than the flame of a candle.
Glowing there in the dusk like one small,
Patient star.
His name is silence.
But you don't need to remember that.
You only need to fall into step beside him.
Google.
The first lamp stands a few paces down the hill.
Its slim iron post at the corner where the baker's shop meets the street.
The lamplighter stops beneath.
He tips his head back.
Unhurried,
And raises the long pole up into the blue.
Guiding that small flame toward the dark glass lantern at the top of the post.
There is the faintest turn.
Of a little brass key.
A soft breath of glass.
Like a quiet sigh.
And then a gentle bloom of light.
A small pool of gold.
Warm as honey.
Opening slowly in the dusk.
Spilling down over the cobbles.
And over the baker's window.
And over the old man's upturned face.
Lowers the pole.
He looks,
Just for a moment,
At the lamp he has lit.
The way you might look at something you have done well.
Quietly.
A thousand times before.
And then he walks on.
And the town settles a little deeper.
Into the evening.
Inside the baker's shop,
Behind the fogged glass,
The day is ending too.
The baker is banking down the great oven for the night.
Breaking the last red embers into a low,
Glowing heat.
And closing the iron door on them.
So in that morning.
.
.
In the cold and the dark.
There will still be a bed of warmth to build a new fire on.
He wipes the long counter.
He carries the last unsold loaf through to the bank.
And the good.
Deep smell of bread and warm flour.
Drifts out under the door.
And into the street.
And folds itself within the wood smooth.
And the cool night air.
The lamplighter breathes it in.
The way he does every evening.
And he walks on.
Down the gentle slope of the high street he goes.
And you go with him.
And the pace of it is the pace of slow breathing.
Lamp by lamp,
The street comes softly alight behind him.
He stops beneath each one.
He raises the pole into the dusk.
Soft breath of gas.
And the slow,
Golden bloom.
Another warm pool of light lay down over the cobbles.
Like a stepping stone made of honey and firelight.
And then he moves on to the next.
And the next.
That if you turned and looked back up the hill,
You would see a long,
Curving chain of soft gold lamps glowing one after another.
All the way up into the gathering dark.
The shops are closing all along the way.
Without any fuss.
The green grocer is carrying his last wooden crates in front of the pavement.
The apples,
The late pears.
And the nobbled orange squashes of autumn.
And stacking them gently.
Inside the door.
A tailor in his narrow shop.
Holds a bolt of soft grey cloth and lays it on the shelf.
And turns down his own little lamp until the window goes dark.
And quiet.
Somewhere a shutter is drawn across a window.
With a soft wooden clatter.
And then latch.
And somewhere else,
Further off,
A door closes.
And a bolt slides home.
Gently.
One by one,
All down the street.
The little sounds of the day are being tucked away.
The town settles a little more into the evening.
The lamplighter tips his hat to a woman hurrying home with a basket over her arms.
And she smiles.
And wishes him a good night.
Her footsteps fade away down a side lane,
Softer and softer.
Until they are gone.
And then the street is his alone again.
Isn't yours.
Just the two of you.
And the slow chain of lamps.
And the deepening blue.
He turns off the high street now,
Into a narrow curving lane of little cottages.
Where the houses lean close and friendly on either side.
The lane is so quiet you can hear your own soft footfalls on the stone.
Here,
The lamps are smaller and further apart,
And older.
And here the evening feels closer and warmer.
And even more still.
He stops beneath the first of them.
In the mouth of the lane.
Up goes the pole,
The soft breath of gas.
The slow gold bloom.
And the little pool of light settles down over a low garden wall.
Where the last few roses of the year hang heavy and half-closed.
A tabby cat sits on top of the wall with its paws tucked neatly under itself,
Watching the old man with calm,
Half-shut eyes.
As the light warms the stone beside it.
The cat gives one slow,
Enormous blink.
And yawns.
A small pink yawn.
And settles its chin down onto its paws.
In the cottage just beyond.
A window glows amber.
And behind it you can see very softly.
The shapes of an evening coming to its close.
The mother is drawing a curtain across the upstairs window.
A small child has been called in from somewhere and washed.
Put into a warm nightshirt.
And is even now being carried up the stairs to bed.
Heavy eyed.
And half asleep.
One small hand resting on a grown-up's shoulder.
The curtain slides gently shut.
And the amber light behind it dims to the soft,
Low glow of a single candle.
Then,
In a little while.
.
.
To nothing at all.
The smell of somebody's supper drifts down the lane,
Something slow and savory.
That has been cooking on a low fire all the long afternoon.
An old dog,
Lying on a doorstep with its nose on its paws,
Thumps its tail once against the stone as the lamplighter passes.
It does not get out.
It is far too comfortable to get up.
It only watches him go by.
Sign.
Deep,
Contented,
Settling sigh.
And closes his eyes.
The lamplighter walks on.
From little lamb to little lamb.
And the lane comes softly alight behind him.
The town breathes out.
And settles.
And grows a little quieter still.
The lane opens out at its far end into the old market square.
By day,
This is the busiest place in the whole town,
Full of stalls and voices,
And the rattle of carts over the cobbles.
But now.
.
.
The end of the day.
It is wide and calm and nearly empty.
And the great open space of it lies quiet.
Under the darkening sky.
In the middle of the square stands an old stone fountain.
And the water slides over its worn lip.
And falls into the basin below with a soft,
Endless,
Silvery murmur.
Sounds so gentle and so constant,
That after a moment you stop hearing it as a sound at all.
And it becomes simply part of the quiet.
The lamplighter crosses the square unhurried,
His footsteps echoing very softly against the shuttered shopfronts.
And here and there he stops.
And raises it home.
And wakes another lamp.
Golden life.
One by the old stone cross,
One by the shuttered inn.
One beneath the wide,
Bare branches of the great oak tree.
That has stood in the corner of this square for longer than anyone living.
Can remember.
Above the rooftops.
The tower of the little church rises up to the last of the blue.
And its round clock face glows a pale,
Soft white.
As the lamplighter passes below it.
The clock begins gently to strike the hour.
A slow,
Deep,
Mellow ball rolling out across the rooftops.
One soft note after another.
And hurry.
Each one fading almost all the way to silence.
Before the next one comes.
You don't need to count them.
Just let them roll over you.
Warm and low.
But fade away into the dark.
One by one.
Until the last of them dissolves into the quiet.
And is gone.
From the inn on the far side of the square comes the low,
Warm murmur of a few gentle voices.
And the soft amber glow of firelight in the small windows.
And very faintly.
Someone humming an old slow tune to themselves.
As they bank the fire for the night.
Which is the sound of a warm room and good company.
And nowhere anyone has to be.
And it drifts across the square,
Soft and blurred,
And folds itself in with the murmur of the fountain.
And the smell of the wood smoke.
And the call of the coming night.
The lamplighter stands for a moment in the middle of the square.
In a pool of gold beneath the great oak.
And looks around him at his work.
The ring of soft lamps glowing all around the quiet square.
Each one holding back a little circle of the dark.
And then he walks on.
Toward the bottom of the town.
And you drift along beside him.
And everything grows softer.
And slower.
And further away.
The last part of the round leads down a gentle slope below the square.
Where the land flattens out.
And the little river runs along the edge of the town.
And slow.
And smile.
Here is the mist beginning to rise.
It lifts off the surface of the water in soft,
Pale,
Drifting ribbons.
Who calls low along the bank.
And softens everything it touches.
So the last few lamps glowing here at the edge of town.
Do not throw sharp circles of light anymore.
But great soft halos of gold,
Blurred and gentle.
Hanging in the mist like something half-remembered.
From a dream.
The lamplighter crosses the old stone bridge.
In no hurry at all.
Low him the river slides by,
Dark and quiet.
Carrying the reflections of the lamps along its surface in long,
Wavering ribbons of gold.
That stretch and shimmer and slowly break apart.
And drift away downstream into the dark.
And are gone.
He stops at the far side of the bridge and lights the last two lamps of his round.
Two that stand at the very edge of the town.
Where the cobbles give way to a soft dirt lane that wanders off between the fields and into the misty dark.
Goes the pole one last time.
Soft breath of gas.
Slow bloom of gold.
And then again.
It is done.
He rests the pole against his shoulder.
He turns there at the edge of the town.
And looks back the way he has come.
And there it all lives.
Whole of the little town.
Laid out below the darkened sky.
And every lamp along every street.
Glowing softly gold.
A whole quiet mass.
Of warm and gentle light.
From the bridge at the bottom.
Through the misty square.
And along the winding lanes.
All the way up the high street to the low green door at the top of the hill.
Every window,
Dark now.
Or dimmed to the last low glow of a banked and sleeping fire.
Every shock shuttered.
Every door bolted soft against the cool of night.
Whole town breathing slow and settling down into sleep.
Held safe against its quiet chain of golden lamps.
Nothing stirs,
Nothing hurries.
Everything.
Everywhere.
Is exactly where it should be.
And now the old lamplighter turns for home.
Back over the bridge he goes.
And up the gentle slope.
Past the quiet fountain still murmuring softly to itself in the empty square.
And into the narrow lane of cottages where the cat sleeps curled on the wall.
And the old dog sleeps on its step.
And every curtain is drawn.
And every small child is long since asleep.
His own footsteps are the only sound now,
Soft and slow on the wharnstone,
And even they seem to grow quieter as he goes.
Softer.
And slower.
And further away.
At the top of the high street he comes again to the low green door in the side of the old stone house.
Lift the pole.
With the smallest breath.
He puts out a little flame at its tip.
That one small star he has carried with him all around the town.
He stands the pole gently inside the door.
Inside,
His own small fire is burning low and warming the gate.
His own chair waits beside him.
And the room is soft and dim and quiet.
And he eases the door shut behind him against the night.
And out in the town all the lamps he has lit.
Go on glowing.
Steady.
And gold.
And patient.
Keeping their small,
Soft watch over the sleeping streets.
All through the Quiet Towns.
Until the morning.
And you.
Wherever you are.
However far away you have already begun to drift.
You can let go of that last thread now.
There is nothing more to follow.
Nothing more to do.
The round is finished.
Town is asleep.
Every lamb his lair.
And every door is closed.
And everything.
Everywhere.
Is warm and safe.
And still.
Let the streets grow dim and the lamps grow soft.
And the whole town fade gently away.
And let yourself go down softly.
Like a leaf on a slow river.
Down.
Into sleep.
