We stood on the edge of the land, with the Lammermuir Hills shimmering in a heat haze through the flames. The fire rose and sank, sometimes licking the sky itself, sometimes restlessly licking the bowl which held it. A cold still day was drawing its last breath, and the crows were returning wearily to the trees with their tales and visions. The bright flickering light drew us here to this spot, as fire has always done across the acres and mountains of time.
We came carrying the burdens of the year, and tended the flames, which yielded creatures of light and heat and smoke. Shapes and visions rose and fell within the bowl of fire, revealing tiny drops of wisdom, as the dead wood released the sunlight it had captured so long ago. Light which had poured from the sun long before any of us drew a breath, now warmed our skins, creating something new before our tired and thirsty eyes.
From the ashes new life rose, hungry for air and space to move. The crackling wood released salamanders and creatures of the flame, and they danced for our pleasure. All were transformed at the edge of the cauldron of fire, on the edge of the green hills, at the very edge of winter, by the flames of Bride.
See more stories in three takes at this weeks DP Challenge