The night had been perfect for a PARTY, putting Marcus on alert. He knew what a mid-October night like this meant: trouble. As sacristan at St. Cecilia’s for nearly 45 years, he had many a chilly mid-October night with a full moon under his belt. Shrugging on his coat, he picked up his cane by the door. He didn’t really need it, but it was sometimes useful to threaten the miscreants who couldn’t wait for Halloween to get into the hard cider or whatever else might give them the courage to look for St. Cecilia’s ghost. Her feast day wasn’t until later in November, but that didn’t stop the tales from being spun, of mysterious ghostly music from the old church, sometimes sounding like an organ, sometimes a flute.

Propped against the STONE wall, he eyed the shadows and listened, senses alert. He knew these graves like the back of his hand, which were most attractive to vandals, which hid furtive lovers, and which were believed to attract the saint.

Nevermind that this church was thousands of miles from Rome, but the carvers who had come here to work the quarries had brought many things with them. A love of the patron saint of music was definitely one of them, and this little stone church in the middle of nowhere was a testament to that devotion.

Marcus wasn’t sure what he believed, but if you had pressed him tonight, he might say that yes, it was a strong TENET of his faith that the saints watched over the faithful.
He knew that it was the grave of little Rebecca that was most popular – the voice of an angel who played the organ as if possessed by the saint herself. Supposedly if you KNELT at her grave long enough, St. Cecilia would appear and your prayers would be answered. Over the years, there had been a few hypothermia cases, but lately the issue was more young people and their phones, filming and whatnot. He shook his head and settled in for a long night of watchful waiting.

Georg’ann

Watching the moon rise AGAIN this morning
showing different sides of herself with every sky crossing

this week I’ve watched Venus move away, farther and farther
from the bright crescent slice whose larger dark side is clearly visible

in the shadow even as she presents herself, elegant beauty
a slender vessel of fine bone china, upturned, prepared to hold

not much. Love has moved away, the sun is coming to eclipse
backlighting the serene grey clouds with a subtle pink, slow light

this morning moon, so unlike your luminous full spotlight
in the crisp night, bright, reflecting on the SNOWY field

my UNCLE worked that field until the death KNELL tolled
country church crowded, we sang praises, KNELT in prayer

Heather