the light at the end of the tunnel is a friendly deception; it’s a long way in, and it’s a long way out. if you’re quiet, you can hear the chatter of a party deep inside.
wear waterproof boots and bring torches. tread cautiously, and look for stepping stones where you can. water drips from the ceiling. mud is the enemy.
the space between daylight and the picnic of candles is cradled in a darkness that stretches on and on. time is folded into the black brick walls and an eternity is spent jumping tracks and skipping mud puddles. then a long tarpaulin with lines of tea lights on either side comes startlingly into view, and so do the people.
glow worms on the ceiling seem to stretch to infinity.
someone is reading Shakespeare aloud. someone is reading Chaucer. in the tunnel, sound is mischievous; all laughter and swearing and whispers that echo are voices finding their way out.
we emerge with mud-caked shoes and dirty hands, tired and smiling.
Kyri’s Birthday, 25/08/2011
things I made, and one thing I bought, because I can’t make ice cream cakes.
