The Moon's Lullaby

Every night, when the sun dips below the hills and the sky turns from blue to orange to the deepest, softest purple, the moon rises. She comes up slowly, the way someone climbs out of a warm bath - unhurried, taking her time. She's been doing it for as long as anyone can remember. Longer than the oldest tree, longer than the oldest mountain, longer than the oldest story anyone's grandmother ever told. And every night, as she rises above the treetops and the rooftops and the church steeples, she sings.

It's not a loud song. You can't hear it if the television is on, or if someone's running a tap, or if you're wriggling. You have to be very still and very quiet to hear it. But if you listen - really, truly listen, with your whole body, the way you listen for a sound you're not quite sure you heard - you can hear it drifting through your window on the night air.

First, the moon sings to the birds. 'Close your eyes, little sparrows. Tuck your heads beneath your wings. You've been singing all day long, and your songs were beautiful, every one of them. But it's my turn now. The sky is mine tonight, and I will keep it safe until the sun comes back.' One by one, the birds stop singing. The blackbird on the chimney pot. The robin in the hedge. The owl - well, the owl stays awake, but she listens to the moon's song anyway, blinking her big round eyes in the dark. The other birds settle into their nests, warm and round and still.

Then the moon sings to the animals. 'Hush now, rabbits in your burrows. Sleep well, foxes in your dens. The fields are quiet, the hedgerows are dark, and the night is as soft as wool.' The rabbits curl up together in their underground rooms, noses tucked under paws, ears flat against their heads. The foxes yawn their wide, red yawns, showing every tooth, and close their amber eyes. The hedgehog under the garden shed rolls into a ball. The dormouse in the hawthorn tree wraps its tail around its nose. One by one, they sleep.

Then the moon sings to the trees. 'Rest now, old friends. Let your leaves hang still. Let your branches stop their stretching and your roots drink slowly from the cool, dark earth. Tomorrow the wind will come back and play with you again - bend you and shake you and make you dance. But tonight, be still.' The trees stop rustling. The branches stop creaking. The leaves stop whispering their leaf-whispers to each other. The whole forest holds its breath, and sleeps.

Then the moon sings to the sea. 'Gently, gently, gentle waves. Lap the shore and sigh. No storms tonight, no crashing surf, no wild white horses galloping in from the deep. Just the slow, steady breath of the tide - in and out, in and out - like a very large animal, sleeping.' The waves grow softer and softer, smaller and smaller, until they sound like whispers, like someone saying shhhh, shhhh, shhhh.

Then the moon sings to the houses. 'Dim your lights, warm little houses. Let the kettles cool. Let the fires die down to embers that glow orange in the dark. Let the floorboards stop their creaking and the pipes stop their ticking and the clocks stop their tocking. Hold your families safe and warm inside your walls, and don't let the cold in.'

And then - last of all, always last of all - the moon sings to the children.

Her voice is the softest now. Barely a sound at all. More like a feeling - warm milk, a favourite blanket, the heavy, sleepy weight of a book that's just been read, the last slow blink before sleep takes over, the way the pillow feels when you turn it to the cool side.

'Goodnight, little one,' the moon sings. 'Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight. The birds are sleeping. The animals are sleeping. The trees are sleeping and the sea is sleeping and your whole house is sleeping. The world is still, and so can you be. I'll be here, shining softly through your curtains, all night long. I won't go anywhere. And when you wake up, the sun will be back, and the birds will be singing, and the whole, bright, wonderful day will be waiting for you. But that's for tomorrow. Tonight, just close your eyes. Tonight, just sleep.'

The moon finishes her song. She hangs in the sky, round and silver and quiet, watching over the sleeping world like a night-light that someone left on. The stars keep her company - thousands of them, tiny and bright, scattered across the dark like sugar on a cake. The night is still.

And somewhere, in a warm bed, in a safe house, under a soft blanket that smells of home, a child's eyes close. Their breathing slows. Their hands uncurl.

And the moon smiles - as much as the moon can smile - and begins her slow, bright, silver journey across the sky.