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.