It is dark outside,

as we sit in

a small front room,

curtains drawn

against the winter cold…

we read an ancient tale of people

long ago…

…their friend,

teacher, and leader

is gone….

… we feel their grief,

although

we cannot plumb the

depths

of it, until we realise

there is more than one

loss here…

one by one we begin to speak

of days gone by,

of Sunday Schools,

and trips,

of Eisteddfod’s,

and Harvests

filled with people

and produce….

remembering singing

hymns into the night,

and how caroling was the highlight

of their Christmas times,

remembering when the Chapel

was the centre of village life,

respected,

and loved….

And now this death highlights the pain,

for we are in a strange land,

and our songs seem dimmed somehow…

…unspoken questions

fill the silent spaces,

and hang in the air

like unwanted cigarette smoke,

outlawed, and unwelcome…

And we wonder

how we can travel together

to a place,

where tears may flow

unchecked for a while,

and our questions are heard…

…where together we

open the curtains

upon this strange,

familiar, land..

to learn a anew the song

whose strain

will never ebb,

or die,

the song known by

stars and mountains,

older than time itself,

yet new,

renewed

transformed….