The Slow Embers of the Earth

The black fen earth hides beside the ruler-straight road, as though the night itself has been discovered in its combed day-roost, ignored by those who speed past. But that blackness is a thin cliche. Stop for a moment and push your fingers into it and you find that fen soil is not black. Though it seems to be made mostly of soot and ink, if you look closely, if you raise a handful and show it to the sun, it will respond with a hidden ember of ground rubies. Somewhere amongst the peat and clay something deeply asleep holds the power of the sun, frozen. You can feel the ghost of that fire in your darkened fingers, waiting for the spring to melt it and the sun to kindle it back into life and then the fens will burst into green flame.