Firepit.

Firepit.
Lee.

I sit in the garden at the table for two, but a chair remains vacant which isn't news. No news is good news, they say, but I crave news. I crave in general.
It's too warm to have a fire, though it’s verging on puthery, but feel a chill, I do; even the warm breeze from the foot of Cornwall, (that I'm sure will have enough heat to make its way to cold-faced Glasgow), can't warm me enough; I'm chilled to the bone. Unusual for this time of year, it is, but the flame nor the backend of the summer's breeze can warm me. It's a chill unlike any other and it's making me cold; no, I am cold, which is unusual for me at any time of year. Over the rooftops and not too far away, bloated, greying clouds rumble like panzers towards myself and my fire pit; storms a-coming which wasn’t forecast, but it’s coming. I’m not made of sugar and I love the rain, but I hope it stays-off until my fire has burnt itself out and I…I…

As I stare into the flames, the ever changing flames dancing to a crackling tune, I see faces and figures, of angels and daemons, past and present and freedom, so much freedom wrapped in their flickering attire of gold, reddish-yellows and saffron, without a future though, for when their fuel turns to ash and smoke, the ash remains whilst the smoke will drift north with the whispering wind.
I don't know freedom. My speech knows it not, whilst my heart is encased in a cold cage, captive to itself, suffering from Stockholm syndrome and I…I…

Fear is overwhelming. The fear of loving and living have never been so close; almost identical twins and getting harder to tell apart on a daily basis, but they are there. I suppose the vacant chair isn’t as empty as it appears, not with these two interlopers present?
Like grandad’s hairline, the flames are thinning, the colours draining and they will be gone all too soon; their once vibrant dance and clothes nothing but ash in the bowels of the fire pit. 
Over the rooftops and not too far away, church bells are tolling, announcing the first drops of rain on my face and spitting death onto my dancing troupe, as the clouds grumble overhead and I…I…