July, under a raincloud

After June, the summers' heat was swallowed up by a raincloud. It
rained for most of July. I sat under a blanket on a sunflower
deckchair, staring with excitement at a sky seldom seen from under the
orange dome of suburbia.

The old man next to me whispered to the campfire and the cold, soggy
Yorkshire fields that reflected its angry glow. I wasn't supposed to
sit next to him, but I did. And he told the fields about the war in a
soft, throaty tone. His brother had died, he was burned alive. I
listened, warming myself by the fire. As the smoke blew in our faces,
his eyes glazed over and he remembered the battlefield. In his mind, he
walked slowly across no-man's land, surounded by death and covered in
mud. Around us, children ran between tents, fleeing from scalding
mothers. While we watched tiny sparks fly from the flames and up to
heaven, he began to cry gently. Then I was pulled away.

I saw him later, as I sat cautiously outside my tent. He was lit up
slightly by the glowing ashes of the fire. Silence. He sat still and
watched the sky, by himself, forever.