The church is still there at the end of the narrow road, the high hedgerows and the vicarage remain pretty much the same, but you are not, for you lie in another place of rest than this, although I don't know where.
The inside is as it was, the choir stalls where we sang all those years ago, are as they were although seeming smaller, the ***** is silent now, but still where it was when the semi-deaf organist played back then.
I look around me as I stand; the same smell old churches have, coloured light through the windows, the lectern where the vicar spoke (sometimes too long), and the wooden pews where the aging congregation sat and listened or fell asleep.
I walk around the church outside and pass old tombstones aged by time, cross the small wooden bridge where we once stood and watched the water pass below or kissed in moonlight after choir before the ride home.
I stand alone now and you elsewhere, cancer's hold took you down your brother said, that time he met me in the town, sometime after.
I hear birdsong and wind in trees, but not your laughter.