In the quiet of the night…

…in a place called Stow-On-The-Wold, the sound of bells chimed twice, and again, five times.  Oh! What it must have been like when this sound kept time for the people of the village.  Was I in such a deep sleep they couldn’t be heard upon every hour?

Earlier in the eve, venturing off down the village, a friendly footpath was found.  The trail lined with Queen Anne Lace and trees, crossed through the woods from one road to the other that ran parallel.  It was getting late, but the day after the solstice placed the sun higher in the sky, giving plenty of light.  With so much light, the ticking of the clock and passing of time hardly matter in the evening hours.

Continuing on to the village, through a narrow passage along the Baptist church established in 1852, there was a courtyard, with a wall. On the inside a row of tombstones were lined up along the perimeter.  Some were huge, incised with well defined letters, others were so terribly worn away that only a few shapes of the cursive could be made out with the human eye.  I ran my hand across the surface hoping I could make out some name or date, but no.  Then, down the road there was another cemetery, quite large in size, closed until the break of another day.  The 23rd, came to an end.

Now, in the morning, the cars can be heard rushing by the window of the room, which lies a bare foot from the road.  My wild imagination makes me fear the possibility of a drunk colliding in the night with a car.  One more here, I’ll just put that out of my mind.  I will listen for the bells to ring once more.