A game play

On a windy cliff above the sea spray and in the heather, sheltered by an old stone wall and warmed by a brazier of charcoal, the kettle boils expectantly

First comes the old gambler, through the drizzle and hung with exhaustion. I brew a strong gumboot tea and listen.

I climbed the heaped dark boulders to find rescue. The dice fell so low for so long I knew it had to change. But now who knows? There were so many possibilities. If only the dice had rolled well, if only I had acted.

The beekeeper come out of the shadow mist, scared.

The hum of the bees has gone. I lost them in the mist as it closed. The rhythm of the day has been broken

I spoon the leaves of recall into the teapot and ask “What were you proud of?”

The sound of the hives hum, the deep hum of happiness, and the sharing of the time of day. Then in the dark the smell of my rolled candles

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The Last Tea Shop – find it here You run a tea shop on the border of the living and the dead. The recently deceased visit for one last hot drink before their long journey into the Great Beyond. Time is strange here. Days and memories blur. Nobody visited yesterday—you are sure of that. Someone passed last week, but you can’t recall their face. The fog thins. A figure approaches. You stoke the fire.