The end of the world.

The evening wind chilled our faces and ran its fingers through our hair.
Behind us, the canvas of the tent flapped and the flames of our camp fire flickered.

In the West, the sun was setting. In the valley below,
darkness was embracing the village.
Ghostlike, long fingers of velvet shadow caressed house and chapel, street and road.
Isolated streetlights fought back. Puddles of light, surrounded by islands of shadow.

But did we care?
We were kings of the world, camped high on the top twmp.
We sat and talked as 11 year olds do,
Of this and that and nothing,
Until the fire became embers,
And the chill of the night pierced our bones
And overcame our youthful zest

Yawning, it was time for sleep we agreed, until we saw the beginning of the end of the world.

It was the decade of confrontation. East versus West. Four minute warnings. The papers were full of it. World War Three loomed. And now it had begun. Flashes filled the horizon. Red, green, blue continuous waves of colour. We knew we would soon be dead. It’s what radiation does. Hiroshima and all that. I had read about it in the Daily Mirror. We gazed down at the sleeping village below. Strangely calm I recall.

The night wind got colder. Our teeth chattered.
The fire was now only ashes. So we went to bed.
Never expecting to get up again. But we did.