Supper in the Churchyard…

The fall wind has swept the

leaves from the yard it is still

warm as the sun sets; evening

twines its shadows among the

gravestones, hand in hand men,

women and children are silent

in the coming twilight.

Their breath a vapor in the departing

day, the pines sway, the evening is

taking on a mystery of its own; the

winds still and each gentle soul begins

to pass the broken bread.

Clouds gather, the hues of the season

spread across the landscape, the church

tower like a shrine points toward the

Heavens;  supper in the churchyard


Oak, pine and wood shavings spring to

life as pyramids of fire leap toward the

Heavens; a slow melancholy hum flows

throughout those gathered and the night

air is filled with the spirit of the moment,

”Oh that circle want be broken…” rises to

meet the stars.

Childhood memories revisited, a little

white church, sweet secrets beneath the

tablecloths, children playing, old folks

praying, hope grew in the hearts of the

people; and in the hands of God, they

left their heavy loads.