Codicote, one March evening 2013.
The air was dry but the road was wet and just as the damp had fallen so had the night upon the village street.
Quiet footfalls carried my body along in the all pervading silence and my body and the deserted village street seemed to share an aloneness with each other; not so my mind; my mind was far from being alone.
My soul walked in the joy of good company just met and it walked in the presence of willing and welcome souls from the past. Even some of the living seemed to have sent their souls along to walk a few steps in harmony with me that late winter evening. Among the crowd were old colleagues long passed and my father too, he was there, what a joyous powerful reunion we had.
There were absences too, intentional absences, those who wouldn’t come even if invited and genuinely so; conspicuous in their absence they were. In fact they called aloud to my mind, ‘remember me? I don’t want to walk with you.’ Perhaps one day they will, I live in hope.
The voices of the unwilling were drowned out by the happy energy of those who dearly wished to be there; they wanted to be there, they wanted to talk again and tell of the things they did not speak before they left our waking world. Still they were happy as was I in our company.
Where I stand in this street I am far from home but not as far as they.
The air was dry but the road was wet and just as the damp had fallen so had the night upon the village street.
Quiet footfalls carried my body along in the all pervading silence and my body and the deserted village street seemed to share an aloneness with each other; not so my mind; my mind was far from being alone.
My soul walked in the joy of good company just met and it walked in the presence of willing and welcome souls from the past. Even some of the living seemed to have sent their souls along to walk a few steps in harmony with me that late winter evening. Among the crowd were old colleagues long passed and my father too, he was there, what a joyous powerful reunion we had.
There were absences too, intentional absences, those who wouldn’t come even if invited and genuinely so; conspicuous in their absence they were. In fact they called aloud to my mind, ‘remember me? I don’t want to walk with you.’ Perhaps one day they will, I live in hope.
The voices of the unwilling were drowned out by the happy energy of those who dearly wished to be there; they wanted to be there, they wanted to talk again and tell of the things they did not speak before they left our waking world. Still they were happy as was I in our company.
Where I stand in this street I am far from home but not as far as they.
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