First frost-breath of Autumn (I)

It was the first of Autumn, not a soul
but you and I were there
dew on the grass, and sunlight in my hair
the churchyard gate was open – just a crack, a creak, ajar
we entered that quiet garden, the parishioners, unaware
while, from afar

a line, clear as the autumn air
poured forth its strains, for all the world to hear
as we walked, feet in step, the garden round
hand in hand, almost without a sound.

The mist in whispers circled us about
which gave us cause to doubt
if this were hallowed ground, or how indeed we might find out:
Onwards we ventured through that fog without
riot or rout

the line, clear as the mist was full
our senses and our spirits seemed to lull
into a sense of false security
I gripped your hand, seeking its surety

as through the far-side gate, bravely, we stepped
and cautiously we crept
beyond the churchyard, to the wheatfields, swept
by whistling winds, hinting of silent secrets kept
for centuries, within an earthen crypt
we almost tripped

the line, but followed it instead:
it sang of both the living and the dead
as in a trance, we followed that strange sound
which seemed both in the air, beneath the ground…

To be continued…