At as the day itself slides into evening the dog hurries us through the empty street:
past the grieving house, where heart-shaped stones line the window ledge, curtains firmly shut against the evening darkness,
past Gallows Hill, with the sleeping dead & the windswept stones that mark their graves,
past the weathered benches & abandoned swings, gently swaying in the soft mist.
All sound muted to a hushed silence, broken only by the faint choir of wind & sea.
Before we reach the water’s edge, the clock strikes five & the weekly tolling of the bells shatter
the silence, each shuttered church ringing their own fierce prayer.
