Posted Saturday November 26
I sometimes sit in the churchyard, for despite the silent army of gravestones standing to attention to honour the dead, the place is alive with sounds, smells and movement.
Sunday I watched as the faithful few filed into the ancient building. From the open door, I heard the tuneless singing of songs of praise and the rattling valves of the wheezing organ. I listened as they mumbled along to the liturgy. I wandered in and the priest passed me swinging the censor, the smell of incense filling the air. Somebody tried to stifle a cough. A head turned toward me illuminated by a shaft of sunlight. We smiled. I wandered back outside.
A kid rushed past me. ‘Ready or not here I come’ A tousle-haired head bobbed down behind a tomb. I used to hide there.
I cast a furtive glance to my right where a lady knelt beside an overgrown grave. With a tiny pair of scissors, she clipped at the weeds whilst dabbing tears from her cheeks with a lace hankie. I knew her years ago. I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to thank her. But I couldn’t so I blew her a kiss as she ambled away.
Yes, I sometimes sit in the churchyard. Not because I seek peace and quiet; I get plenty of that. I just like to know what is going on above the ground.
For Sunday's Whirligig where the given words are valves, church, coughs, weirdness, liturgy, kids, smell, heads, dabbing, swinging and scissors
I didn't use weirdness but I guess it perfectly sums up what I have just written!