‘‘A firedance through the night.’ What d’you suppose they meant by that?’
‘That band, you know the ones, all floppy hair and white teeth. You know, catchy melodies. They had fancy lyrics, too.’
‘Oh, yeah. I dunno.’
‘You dunno the band, or you dunno what they meant?’
“Both. It was a while ago, wasn’t it?’
They continued along the dark road, footsteps echoing in the cold night air.
‘Maybe they were talking about those fire dancers, you know, the ones you see on the beach, twirling their fire sticks. Remember that holiday we went on?’
‘Yeah. Nice, that.’
On the hillside beyond, fire bloomed, like an exotic red gold flower opening, throwing smoke into the velvet sky.
‘It was a catchy tune. One of my favourites, back in the day.’
‘Oh well. That’s nice. Cold tonight, isn’t it?’
‘Lovely and clear though. Look at them stars.’
‘Won’t mind getting in though. A nice cup of tea, I think.’
Above them, drumming rang in the high places. Figures masked and cloaked moved between the fires, casting long shadows. Their dance was older than history, older than the hills. It had been sung and written about many times, ribbons of memory woven into pictures anew.
But they did not concern themselves with the world. All they needed was the dance.
This was my response to Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt for this week.
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