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Morning Glory

The sky in the east lightens imperceptivity from velvet black into a steel grey canvas leaving two oak trees perfectly silhouetted against its backdrop. As the earth dips its horizon down to the sun, so the trees evolve from two to three dimensional objects with more and more detail becoming visible. Now all is rapid change as the tip of the sun climbs above the horizon and its warm fingers caressed the leaves of these silent witnesses. The fingers of light spread quickly down the valley now clipping the top and moving down the camp flag pole and on down to the cross tree and empty rope hoist. Now they reach the nearest tent whose canvas and guy lines are still stretched taunt by the nights heavy dew. The morning chorus confirms the inevitability of morning to the half awake campers. Now the suns rays are racing across the dew drenched grass, every beam caught in the droplets creating a minute and constantly changing image of its neighbour.

 So the scene is set.

Deep deep down in a warm sleeping bag is a young scout who has dreaded this moment, this early test of will power and character. She has been told that it is her job to be first up and light the cooking fire. Despite the sun, the morning is cold and the chill of the clammy groundsheet is just the start. Her daps are sodden and the lasses are yet another hurdle for young fingers. Unlacing the door is achieved in time and the sun bursts in to howls of protest.

Preparation is the key, the first match splutters and breaks but the next catches the dry tinder and the second wonder of heat and light this morning works its magic.

Ron Blundell

24/8/03