There’s a flock grazing around the ruin already. A blackface ram pokes its face through the window, his twisted horns framing his placid face. He stares for a bit, his jaw working steadily through a mouthful of grass, before he turns his head away, apologetically.
The thatch caught easily. Thin black wisps, the whispers of dead generations, rose skywards and dissipated against indifferent grey clouds. The flames came, licking their way through the heather, the broom, the marram grass. They spat and cackled, hissing sparks as they crept towards the centre of the roof where they burst into a short-lived roar, before the bracken beams groaned and gave way, collapsing into the living area.
This was my land, this was my home. But stone doesn’t burn.