Return

A week later we gathered beneath the copper beech.

Each tin was opened slowly.

Inside lay our charcoal.

Hard.
Soft.

Blue-black.
Others carrying a faint golden sheen.

Even the tins had changed-
their interiors studded with tarry black bubbles that Isa couldn't resist popping with his fingers.

Only then did we remember to draw.

Tree → wood → charcoal → mark.

Circle complete.

On leaving we scattered a little charcoal beneath the beech that had sheltered us.

A small gift in return.