Yesterday, between showers, I popped in for a chat with my friend.
She has been here for 18 months now, but I like to keep in touch. It's also an opportunity to revisit the memories of others I have known within our community but who are no longer with us in the flesh. There is a wooden bench situated under the oak tree, where I sat for a while and communed. It seemed fitting that I could hear the children from the village primary school enjoying their lunchtime play on their first day back, separated from the graveyard by just one little field of grass. All of life was there.
On the grass, pearled by the last shower, was this small twig of oak with turning leaves, presumably pruned from the tree by the winds of the previous night. I thought it lovely. Clare would have appreciated it, so I left it on her grave.
Back towards the church and my car, I passed the memorial stone to another friend's parents, who died a year apart, and spent a moment remembering them.
The church itself bore witness to happier celebrations, with this lovely floral arch decorating the doorway (somewhat buffeted by the wind, but still glorious).