One afternoon this week I visited an old graveyard.
For research, for atmosphere, for aide-memoire.
One that rises like a long barrow. Terraced like a ring fort, guarded by stones.
A hill of the dead.
Near the entrance gates, a raven affected a Poe-like pose atop a gravestone. He eyed me resentfully and flapped off.
Much to my disgust.
Unregulated by neat rectangles and scheduled plots, one cannot avoid walking over the old haphazard graves between the pale, tilted markers. But here, one does not shiver the bones beneath, nor disturb them by unintentional disrespect.
A fine and quiet place.
For the hill has swallowed up sound as it has the dead.
The highway runs near but you do not hear it.
One does not hear even one's own footfalls beneath the giant oaks, over the sunken limestone slabs lipped by earth and moss.
As if one's living feet are as unsubstantial and silent as a a ghost's.
As irrelevant. As ignored.
The only eerie thing.
I should not have gone there in sunlight.
Rather gone when the mist is knee-high and the skies drip.
Or at dusk.
Still, I wondered why the slow lichen on some stones gleamed soft gold - and on others a dull and sullen black.
* * *
From the Gimme-You-Feet-I-Want-To Kiss-Them Department:
Yesterday, Charles posted a review of Stone Child. You can read his comments at http://charlesgramlich.blogspot.com/2007/09/notes-from-blogworld.html
BTW, I've joined the Sisters of Perpetual Astonishment.
Groaner Q & A:
Q: How do crazy people go through the forest?
A: They take the psychopath.
This one's for Michelle and her first novel Pervalism.