The ash mixes with the drizzle and falls like snow. They walk up the steep cobbled hill after the plane crash, their plane crash teddies dribbling blood into the cracks, their limb-strewn traumatised plane crash bodies, their oxygen-debt brains, burns on their knees, splinters of plane crash on the insides of their elbows. All they salvaged were bags of braeburns. The kestrels are hovering above, the survivors ignore them and settle into the caves in the cliffs. They wait in the caves, moving through the years and decades in the slow-shifting rock. They eat braeburns. They grow courgettes at the back of the caves. They use rocks to carve beautiful submarines from the courgettes and stack them all up in an imprecise corner of the cave until they have a huge stockpile floatilla of beautiful courgette submarines and not brass marigolds. Still, the idea of brass marigolds is there and they would make them if they could and archaeologists in the future will find their hardened mould-stack of courgette submarines and they will find the tools and summarise that, yes, these people made beautiful brass marigolds. Whilst the kestrels hovered above.