"Campfire" by Rachel Jung


The fire pulses with a hum like a bee’s

and the fizz of rain-damp wood.

Our drowsy eyes are drawn to where the flames lick–

curled crescents of orange peel.

Sparks, a mimicry of the stars crowning our heads

in a sky the colour of expensive ink,

echo cracks and snaps.

Where the tent sits under the trees,

it glows red, like an ember

left nestled in the ashes

that warmed our hands and cold cheeks.

Later, a torch beam skims over the pages of my book,

filling the tent with amber light.

I lie like a bug cast in ancient sap–

quiet and still for a million years.

Before I sleep, I imagine a giant

bending down to pick up the orange gem

of our tent, holding me like a filmy larva

and putting me in his pocket.


Rachel Jung is a 20-year old Classics student from England. She likes to go on long walks, crochet, and makes collages out of scrap paper. You can find more of her work in Clandestine Lit, alongside various Oxford University student publications, and at linktr.ee/racheljung.

Instagram: @woahrae

Twitter: @rachelthesnail7

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