The churchyard was alive with nervous chatter. Musical instruments were tuned and tables set as the villagers prepared. A freshly caught young boar roasted slowly over a flaming pit; barrels of vintage ale hastily unplugged in thirsty anticipation. However, until their old friends arrived the festivities couldn’t begin. This is the way it had to be.
As the stars inched towards their foretold position the first shadows formed. From the darkness into the light of the blazing fires they slowly came. Old familiar faces; voices not heard for a generation. Welcoming embraces only dared to be offered by the most senior of the villagers. The rest remained at a respectful distance until the formalities were complete. Only then could the party truly commence.
Until first light it continued. Stories exchanged, age old songs sung lustily as laughter and kinship echoed across the neighbouring fields – the churchyard had never seen such a gathering; had never seen such joy. As always though they wouldn’t be able to stay.
Come the dawn the churchyard once more fell silent. Sadness returning as old friends retreated regretfully back into the shadows; back into the glass – to stand, watching over us until the distant stars once more aligned.
These words form my entry into this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction challenge.