“Oranges and lemons" say the Bells of St. Clement's
“You owe me five farthings" say the Bells of St. Martin's
“When will you pay me?" say the Bells of Old Bailey
“When I grow rich" say the Bells of Shoreditch
The slow echoing chanting of children's voices.
Slow echoing chant quite in the early night illuminated by the moon darkness that she brings upon the world.
Strange moving shadows, cast by the low lifeless fog that sits on the ground.
moving slowly as if it were covering a bed of serpents.
The light rustling of the remanding leaves that cling tightly to the dead limbs of the trees.
"When will that be?" say the Bells of Stepney
"I do not know" say the Great Bells of Bow
The low mist parts with each step that you take on the damp ground, through the forgotten abandoned playground.
Over shadowed by the back silhouettes of the church.
Spinning around on your heels. The sound of a laughing child. Yet nothing is there.
The squeaking of the swings un oiled rusted chains move back and forth with its phantom rider, or so you hope.
The laughter again and this time to the round about you turn your gaze. It turns slowly and then stops. Again the laughter. But this time a grey figure runs past the gate heading towards the church and out of sight.
Curiously and reluctantly you walk towards the gate. Its black steel skellington, cold and ruff to the touch from rust.
Pushing the heavy gate open it screams painfully from years of neglect.
Looking to the church tower, the moon hanging low and full behind, in the pitch black blue sky.
Clouds of dark black grey lay upon its darkness with shimmering stars spread thick and far like spilt glitter pots.
Your eyes play tricks on you in the night creating something hat is not there.
Tomb stones of the long forgotten line the path of lose pebble stones crackling beneath your feet.
A weeping angle lies over a grave with wings and teas spread over the concrete incased corps.
Strange shadows full along the path from crosses and standing angle figures marking the dead.
"Oranges and lemons" say the Bells of St. Clement's
A whisper on the wind sends a cold shiver through your body.
hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
the tingling feeling of goose bumps cover your body…
And the feeling of someone watching.
The nose of rustling leaves upon the ground and as you look to you feet the fog moves and forward as thought someone stands behind you.
Your hear races faced and faster.
fear.
The cold feeling of a breathe on you neck.
Do you dear look behind…
© sarah jane patel 2014
“You owe me five farthings" say the Bells of St. Martin's
“When will you pay me?" say the Bells of Old Bailey
“When I grow rich" say the Bells of Shoreditch
Slow echoing chant quite in the early night illuminated by the moon darkness that she brings upon the world.
Strange moving shadows, cast by the low lifeless fog that sits on the ground.
moving slowly as if it were covering a bed of serpents.
The light rustling of the remanding leaves that cling tightly to the dead limbs of the trees.
"I do not know" say the Great Bells of Bow
Over shadowed by the back silhouettes of the church.
Spinning around on your heels. The sound of a laughing child. Yet nothing is there.
The squeaking of the swings un oiled rusted chains move back and forth with its phantom rider, or so you hope.
The laughter again and this time to the round about you turn your gaze. It turns slowly and then stops. Again the laughter. But this time a grey figure runs past the gate heading towards the church and out of sight.
Curiously and reluctantly you walk towards the gate. Its black steel skellington, cold and ruff to the touch from rust.
Pushing the heavy gate open it screams painfully from years of neglect.
Looking to the church tower, the moon hanging low and full behind, in the pitch black blue sky.
Clouds of dark black grey lay upon its darkness with shimmering stars spread thick and far like spilt glitter pots.
Your eyes play tricks on you in the night creating something hat is not there.
Tomb stones of the long forgotten line the path of lose pebble stones crackling beneath your feet.
A weeping angle lies over a grave with wings and teas spread over the concrete incased corps.
Strange shadows full along the path from crosses and standing angle figures marking the dead.
hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
the tingling feeling of goose bumps cover your body…
And the feeling of someone watching.
The nose of rustling leaves upon the ground and as you look to you feet the fog moves and forward as thought someone stands behind you.
Your hear races faced and faster.
fear.
The cold feeling of a breathe on you neck.
Do you dear look behind…
© sarah jane patel 2014
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