where art collides

I saw it again today. The church. I looked just like it did the last time except, in my mind, more dilapidated.

I had looked out for it on a number of occasions but had not been able to find it. Turned out it was a lot further away from Newark than I had thought.

Seeing it again evoked the exact same thoughts as it had the first time. Questioning thoughts. Where was the congregation? What had happened to the pastor?

I was interested in was the social history. Why was the church out of use, or apparently so?

The ghosts of the congregation, dead and alive, floated over the cemetery in front of the church…

Today it felt as if we were being given one more summer’s day before the onset of autumn for real and with it the slow and inevitable slide into winter. It was the first day of John’s football season. A good morning to be out in shorts and tee shirt followed by a really fruitful afternoon of ticking things off the jobslist. Apple picking, and a goodly crop it was too, contributed to a sense of well being. Getting the crops in for storage to help us survive the long dark winter.

As I was picking apples I saw Adrian over the back fence, looking through a pair of binoculars. He had spotted a hawk eating a pigeon it had caught. Feathers all over the place and very impressive. It was a fine bird and perhaps explains the occasional pile of feathers in the allotment. I had previously assumed it was the work of a fox.

I’ve lit the fire tonight. I didn’t really need to but it felt right. The best of the day has gone and the wind has picked up outside. It is very cosy sitting in our front room in front of the fire.

With the fire lit and the darkness outside I can imagine being holed up for a long artic winter, not venturing out much, perhaps only to get some more fuel or food from the store. At night I can hear wolves howling in the distance and the wind howling around the eaves directly outside.

The gun is prominent in its place above the fireplace. We are not afraid to use it and it certainly helps us to supplement the fairly boring diet we have all winter when some hapless animal strays in the direction of the cabin. The cabin itself smells permanently of woodsmoke, as do we all but we don’t notice it. It is part of our life.

In the kitchen I hear the dishwasher being emptied and refilled by Anne as she gets ready to go to bed. Outside the occasional Sunday night car drives by and I even hear an aircraft coming in to land, presumably, at nearby RAF Waddington.

Yellow street light reflects off the Jeep in the drive outside. The fire has died down now, its purpose well served and I sit cross legged on the sofa, writing.