a cold night

The dying fire exuded a comforting warmth. Hours ago it had roared, devouring fallen branches they'd collected. 

On the damp forest floor, two women sat huddled together shivering. The women were tired but vowed not to sleep until the fire died; perhaps another hour. 

One glanced up. The stars were concealed by a blanket of darkening clouds - framed by the skeletal canopy. They spoke little. A hoot escaped from the nearby trees and for a moment they rejoiced silently, sharing a smile. 

One woman stood, rummaged through their bag and pulled out a container holding the last of their water. She moved to the tree line and began picking flowers; lavender, chamomile and nettle. She returned with a handful and sat with them in a heap on her lap. Plucking them apart, she let each leaf, each bud, each petal, fall gently into the container that she had balanced against her leg. When she had nothing left she picked up the container and rested it gently on top of the smouldering ashes.

It wasn’t hot enough to boil the water, only to warm it slightly. 

She looked at the other woman and smiled.

“Tea?”