The Lamp


I’m writing by the warm light of a paraffin lamp, which hung high inside the curve of the egg, casts long moving shadows in time with its slow rocking. It’s a live flame from a fluttering tongue of yellowish light. The coals in the heater and are spluttering into heat and the air is warming, but my breath is a still visible mist drifting on unseen currents, in and out of dim light and soft shade. Outside the river flows inexorably on.