Under the White Bunting

No one tied the bunting there.
It simply leaned from post to post
As though the wind had practised.

No chalkboard named the hour.
No bell rehearsed the call.
And yet by noon
The quarry field remembered us.

Tables stood
With lace that smelt of careful years,
Cakes waited
Under domes of patient glass,
Jam jars caught the light
Like small, obedient suns.

The tombola drum
Turned with its wooden sigh —
Hope in a circle.

Children ran before the rules,
Dogs disobeyed with confidence,
Tea was poured
As if it always had been.

And overhead
The bunting held its breath.

Not black.
Not bright.

Only listening.

A coin rolled.
A chair wavered.
A praise paused
On the edge of pride.

These were the fireworks.

Not flame —
But inclination.

Not thunder —
But reflex.

In the smallest space
Between falling and reaching
A village chose itself again.

By dusk
The bunting had settled
Into white.

The mirror said nothing.
The field resumed its grass.
The wind untied what it had tied.

Tomorrow
There would be no trace
Except doors opening
A fraction sooner.

And somewhere,
Folded into the quiet of the land,
The Fête would wait —

Unadvertised,
Unforgotten,
Watching
For the colour of the sky.

Epilogue: The One Who Watched

They did not notice her at first.

She stood where the stone wall dips,
Where daisies lean
And lantern light does not quite reach.

Her hair caught the fire’s gold
Before the fire caught her face.

She did not enter the sack race.
She did not judge the sponge.
She did not turn the tombola drum.

She watched.

When the coin rolled,
Her hand did not move.

When the chair wavered,
Her breath did —
But she did not.

She has learned, you see,
That villages must steady themselves.

The bunting above her
Had begun the afternoon undecided.

She saw the first thread pale.
She saw the second follow.

She saw Mrs Doyle’s praise
Tilt the colour toward light.

And when the mirror stood
At the field’s edge,
She did not look for herself.

She looked for the field.

Grass.
White bunting.
No ledger.

That was enough.

Later — long after the fire fell to embers —
A child would say,

“Was Alice there?”

And someone would answer,

“Of course she was.”

Because there are some gatherings
She does not begin,
Does not mend,
Does not command —

She only keeps.

And when the wind untied the bunting
And folded it back into the sky,

It brushed her shoulder
Like thanks.

You can read the full story via this LINK. Enjoy.