Cobwebs, webs on webs, and grey dust, this place has been a long time empty of life. Well, at least of breathing congregations. I'm sure there are a few church mice; there's always mice, aren't there? And I guess that a few human souls often linger. I don't feel alone. No, not alone in any sense that matters. I guess that this place was once full of the living, each pew full, sacraments often taken. There is a dusty organ behind the pulpit, one with hand-pumped bellows. I pump down then try a key or two. From the pipes I solicit a groan, and then a whine as air escapes from some overrigid valve. In my head I hear the music of weddings, christenings, funerals. I hear the half-sung hymns, the earnestness of the priests harsh but caring voice, I hear the scuffles of children at the back, desperate for release. I hear the tinkle of the coins and on the web shrouded windows the tinkle of the rain.
The pattering rain has drawn me back. My fingers are guided to write 'In God we trust' on the back of a pew. Then as quietly as a mouse, I leave.
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