Word Count 197
By Sharon Collins
Cuddled in the soft elbow of a shallow stream, the graveyard of St. Just-in-Roseland lies summer lush and full of lark-song. Within its chapel’s ancient walls, a hive of lovelies, the ladies of the Altar Society, dress her for a weekend wedding. Evergreen garlands reminiscent of medieval Yuletides and pert nosegays which Cobweb or Peasblossom might have gathered for Titania, grace arch and niche. A tourist, She feels an interloper, welcome but a nuisance nonetheless, so she makes her curtsey and retreats to the stones
. Here the hum of different hive invites her to softly sing familiar words, “Amazing grace how sweet the sound…” but the melody sounds strange, unfamiliar, slightly medieval. The words are right, but the rhythm is wrong. She shakes her copper curls and starts again, and yet again, a trinity of attempts, her offering to the souls veiled in weathered stone surrounding her. Compelled, she finds herself singing someone else’s song, “And did those feet, in ancient times…” words and music melding. Woven into the dappled sunlight, Her voice and Their song transform the stones, and They step forth. Four phantoms, add their ancient harmony to Hers in a melody bequeathed by angels.