This is a prose piece i put together after walks around my hometown. Strange personal memories surface along with historical themes.
I pass through a cloud of flies and as they surround my head I can tell summer is here. I walk quickly breathing slow, my god they taste awful. The viciously spiked railings of the churchyard run parallel with the path I’m following, the great stone building standing beyond. The Norman tower still stands strong and tall, with vast studded wooden doors, the first part of the church to be built so many hundreds of years ago. New additions, well relatively new, gave the church its cruciform shape and space for a growing congregation. The spikes seem to be a feature of my hometown, around public buildings and private homes alike. When I was a boy, on carnival night, I saw a drunk girl older than me. She fell in slow motion with her arm outstretched, by the war memorial where the railings only stood waist height. It was like butter and there were screams, with blood up the walls on my walk home that night, and to and from school for weeks. Now I’m back, passing those railings daily, and I still see her standing and trying to walk back home. But I tear my thoughts back to the here and now, back to the many graves that tell a timeline of those who lived and died in the houses around me. There are dates and causes for those with the time to read and explore. From plagues to war and old age to the painfully young, there are stories set in stone. This town is ancient, although new houses spring up yearly, and some of the older buildings are wonderfully unique. Great country houses that stood alone so many years ago with rolling green lawns, now sit nestled amongst the relative newcomers. Still a few hundred years old though, not like those true blow ins on the outskirts. And so I feel the wash of history from this old town nestled amongst the hills. The houses are still standing, while the graveyard grows. There is some comfort in knowing we’ve been here a while.
