It was dry, very dry, being midsummer. Within minutes a fire had started and he stared at the fire; it began to snake its way through the wheat. His first appreciation, beyond the flames, the colour of the flames, was the crackling noise and then the wafts of heat, carried towards him on the swirl that also carried the smell, the rich, depth of dark smell. And the black smoke that hung, blocking the moon in the sky.

The world had changed in minutes, transformed in all physical aspects, into a display of beauty, but it had caused destruction. There he realised the opposites, that both had a wonder, the purity of the golden wheat field blowing without concern and then the fire that had changed its life, killed its future. Stopped it from existing in the form it was intended to in life. No longer in the image of creation but in the image of destruction. Why were both so truly wonderful? It made him warm and he felt protected.

Then he realised the fire was devouring, spreading across this field, he could hear shouts from the other side of the fence. He still didn’t feel he had done anything wrong, as he felt he was able to deny to himself that it was his fault, and then the sound of fire engines could be heard, they were driving up the field, up the hill from the neighbour’s side which was the last house in the row. Two fire engines.

He thought he should move, make an effort; their hoses powered water over what was now a field of black; not golden anymore. Killing his orange night. He stood up to watch. Eventually, with barely anything left of the wheat field, acres of blackness now, the fire was brought under control. And then he remembers being questioned, first by the firemen, then a furious farmer appeared, then the police, and everybody was looking at him and asking him questions and then, and then, and then, oh God, why? He was accused of starting the fire.

He stood there looking and listening to this anger directed towards him. The shouting. He denied it because he genuinely believed he hadn’t – started the fire, that is. He didn’t have to go through the effort of lying, he could make no connection between the fire and himself. He was left with his mother, now screaming at him; his father wasn’t there. But his own fire, outside his tent, was there, smouldering, evidence, undeniable.

He was so small.