Ember night.

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The night is long and only half way through so I put on clothes and sit in the dark beside the fire and watch the twinkle of dying orange embers among grey ash. The echo of chords played on the piano in the early evening linger on in the turf-scented stillness; a merry tune takes a melancholy turn, and spent laughter falls from the folds of heavy-braided curtains where it became trapped after escaping from wine-blushed lips after dinner. All this when I poked at the embers, blowing too hard on them to fan them back into life, leaving me dizzy, but not blowing hard enough.