The Funeral

 The hearse turned the corner by Pen Y Cefn Isa Farm around twenty five past eleven. I could just see it above the hawthorn hedge of my field. 

It was moving at a slow walking pace, with Ralph’s closest walking behind.

Already a fair , socially distanced crowd had gathered outside the church and the workmen builders cementing bricks around the new build behind my cottage had quieted their radio and had laid down their tools as requested.

Sailor John and I stood on the lawn of our respective gardens and waited. 

It wasn’t long before the funeral cars appeared.

One of the younger women in the party carried Ralph’s shepherd’s crook which was a nice touch I thought.

Sailor John and I bowed our heads to Lywenna who was sat stiffly in the second car.

We have waved to her so many times as she passed through the lane over the years.

I watched the outdoor service from my field. Village Elder Islwyn and the gravedigger stood to one side in their yellow workmen coats and in the far corners of the Churchyard , little knots of people stood to attention as a Welsh Minister took the service, his thickly accented baritone catching the faint breeze to where I stood allowing me to hear the odd phrase or word above the caws of the Crows in the trees surrounding the village pond and the far screams of seagulls flying over the fields to the West.