Part 11

In the heat, the log splits loudly in two,

sending firefly sparks shooting out around

us. Beautiful and vibrant and

shining brightly for a moment and

then lost. With only flecks of afterimage

to remember them by. The wood shifts again

releasing a fresh swarm into the air.

To my childish delight, the salt burns with

half a dozen colours in its flames.

Dancing around the base of the cooking

pot. The old muscles cooking with butter,

and wild garlic from the hills, and salt,

and seaweed from the shore. The sun

falls behind the dunes before its cooked through.





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