Cold rituals of this small boy

Rituals begin after the final notes of the Magic Roundabout closing credits run

Zebedee a memory, it’s time for bed passed, but you’re still hanging in there

till Serge Danot leaves with Eric Cunningham at the top of the screen

That five minutes which never seemed long enough to a six years old boy unready for bed 

Brushed cotton stripe pyjamas changed into in front of the hissing radiant gas fire

stay warm, stay warm, your mother’s mantra she chants, vest left on

To then stand attention like by the kitchen sink 

As the pink hot water bottle in father’s hand was presented for muster

Vulcanised rubber smells heavy in the air as the screw bung was ceremonially removed,

last night's water emptied out with its small pink intestines bits spilled on the white Belfast vitreous enamel

Presented ready and waiting once again to be filled from a boiling kettle, hot off the gas ring

Slow as a military funeral cortege the journey begins up the nighttime stairs

The beat of the ponderous kettle drum with sloped arms attendant guarding at the rear 

against a chance of any possible desertions 

Too soon to halt, having arrived at the cold partitioned bedroom door, its paper thin 

drum like dividing walls, used to signal to the enemy sister’s encampment on the other side.

Single bed pushed tight against the wall

Flannelette sheets pulled back to reveal

Itchy woollen off-cream blankets with satin edging,

topped off with the Candlewick bedspread handed down through the family in perpetuity 

Hot water bottle exchanged with due decorum to be placed like a trusted hound by your feet

Later to be hawked up like a hooker in a scrum to just above the knee,

where an outstretched errant arm reaches with fingertip precision 

Pulled to its final resting place on the belly, at least till it was too hot to bear

Like regimental flags the sheets are folded tucked in by crease by crease, 

so tight in their formation you’re unable to move

Watching the curtains move and dance with the irregular rhythm of the wind from outside, 

as they struggle to exert control over a single sash corded pane with its associated quarter inch gap.

Now in January, the certain morning condensation will have frozen on the inside of the window, 

ready for a scrawled smiley face.

But here and now, under a final last post, kissed goodnight, first by father and then by mother

The order of the night light is invoked, a duty to scare any prowling nightmare away accepted 

Here in the yellow tungsten glow you lie,

breath held stillness listening so hard your heart beats in your ear drums so loud

Perchance monsters will by some careless movement themselves be revealed 

For this is the world at six years old and these are the bedtime cold rituals of this small boy.