By Sol Wyatt - Year 10, St Peter's College
In the small hours, in a small house, in a small room, wide awake, sat a small boy, patiently waiting on Christmas Eve, for the big man in red to arrive on his reindeer steeds.
Through a frosty window, with his nose pressed hard upon the glass, he watched.
Staring into the smoggy clouds that cloaked the sky, he watched them drift seamlessly across the harbour and then fade away behind the horizon of buildings and lights.
Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of the nosey blue moon or an odd lonely stray star.
Still, he waited.
He looked across the street to the old park bench next to the boat builder's yard.
The bench was once a hub for social activity, but since the fire in the dairy that once stood where the boat builder's now stood, it had lost its magic and was now merely another perch for the seagulls.
Upon the bench sat an old man, isolated between the tired chain-link fence crowned in thorny barbed-wire and a footpath that was littered with dog poo and puddled with rainbows.
His face was bearded grey and his greasy brown coat looked as though it hadn't been washed since the day it was purchased many moons ago.
He also wore waxy denim jeans, stained with coal, blood and God knows what else.
Awkwardly, the man clutched a dull, silver cigarette lighter in his lap, hovering his already gloved hands over the withering flame for warmth, constantly relighting it after every breath of the cold Atlantic wind.
The boy felt great pity for the shivering old man. The old man secretly watched.
Suddenly the boy disappeared from his framed view of the room, but quickly returned.
The boy tapped hesitantly on the icy glass pane.
The man looked over with a sharp, cold glance, a stare that revealed a past filled with disappointment and grief, and a face that told a story of lost love and changing times.
''Tap, tap, tap.''
Again the boy tapped, this time holding up a soft hand-knitted blanket, fresh from the linen cupboard and a steaming cup of warm creamy cocoa, topped with two small marshmallows.
The man's expression dropped.
A small tear rolled down his thin cheek, flowing through the metropolis of wrinkles and scars until it was eventually snapped up by the cold.
A smile broke out of his sorrowful face, and the boy smiled back.
Slowly, the man got up from his place on the lonesome park bench and hobbled over to the boy.
He gladly accepted the boy's gift, then struggled on back to his seat.
In the small hours, on a small bench, lay an old man.
Wrapped in clean blankets, warmed to the core by Christmas spirit and the cocoa of course, he drifted off to sleep, and slept right through till dawn.
