![]() ![]() The multitude of finches, robins, and tits suddenly quieted down as if on command, and he closed his eyes. As he lay there, he could feel the back of his shirt, damp from sweat, even though the sun was pale and barely trying at just nine in the morning he had already been hard at work in the fields for several hours. Huge bundles of hay had already been piled up high on the back of the wagon, waiting for transport to the horse and dairy farms that dotted the outer vicinity of the village, stretching in a row from Alton to East Tisted. It was haying season, and he had left his wagon in the lane, right where it met the kissing gate and the farm fields at the end of old Gosport Road. He had never left his small village to see the great cathedrals of his country, but he knew from books how the sculpted ancient rulers lay just like this, atop their elevated shrines, for lower men like himself to gaze at centuries later in awe. He must have looked like an effigy himself, resting on top of the wall, as if carved into permanent silence, abreast a silent tomb. Lying there, still, face turned flat upwards to the sky, he could feel death all around him in the small church graveyard. ![]() ![]() The birdsong pierced the early-morning air in little shrieks that hammered at his very skull. ![]() He lay back on the low stone wall, knees pulled up, and stretched out his spine against the rock. ![]()
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