The calling bell peals out across the dales, fens and marshes. The morning workers, fruitlessly toiling their lives away in orchards, valleys and hedge rows, sing out against the arrival of the morning’s first wind. Its direction?
Over the graves, leaves. Over the graves, windmills and teddy bears. Over the graves, dead flowers. Over the graves, warm recumbent bodies. Over the graves, God’s great beneficence. Over the graves, more sorrow than you’ve ever felt.
Hallelujah the church bells, also pealing. The flock, responding in rhyme and song. A walk up the paths, two either side, to the church doors, two either side. In the vast skies above, tickled by the playful touch of spire, more beneficence. Those of upward looking bent spy this beneficence and drop to their knees. As well they fucking should. Worms, if they had knees, would also do this.
Hannah Pan of graceful eyes and lilt is a mist this morning. Avoiding the throck and throng, she is all eyes a-smiling which lift her above the Godlessness below to heights those fools can only dream of. And yes, they might shield their pinhole eyes in disgusted terror. And yes, Hannah Pan floats somewhere above them, they’re sure, treading the undulations of gentle winds of colour and cool. She is all and more.
The wind this morning is a simultaneous appearance at both ends of the street. The street is dry and still. Above, the chime of the village clock. In the distance, a gathering storm of obfuscation. Soon, the heavy fall of allegory. No wind.