A few weeks ago, strong winds, remnants of Hurricane Gonzalo, swept across Purbeck - in our attic, the bats hunkered down, spiders spun their gluey nets - I lay in bed, dreaming of immense kites soaring up to the clouds -
The next morning, I tipped the wood ash from the fire onto the ash pile - I thought of Bernie O'Shea, shaking his head - that's a poor fire he'd sighed - the next parish was in America -
We'd been staying in a cottage, not far from Adrigole, a few miles away from Macgillycuddy's Reeks -
Bernie's wife had died some years before - I spoke to her in a dream he said - but I got cut off -
Later, I lingered near the box tomb, picking up the fallen pine cones, torn from high branches by the winds -
Tonight I'll light the fire - I'll read Molotov's Magic Lantern warmed by hissing Apple logs - the pine cones will smoulder, then burst into flames -
16.30
October 26 2014
The churchyard of St Mary the Virgin
East Stoke
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