There were no carts with all their merchandise,
no barking dogs ,
or children’s screams ,
for now the village was lost in a sleeping dream .
Just the church bells toll that could be heard for the harvest of souls ,
to thank God for their crops to yeald .
The ladies bonnets ,
the men wore ties ,
the preacher wore black well betide .
The sermon was of sobering thought ,
that without Gods help we are but nought !
That Angels may open dungeon cells ,
and the strange old lady down the road ,
who nobody speaks of ,
Is not as mad as all were told .
Now the preacher man who was so brave ,
Who dressed in black with souls to save ,
closed his Bible with a grimise ,
then a smile ,
there are many on their way to hell ,
there is no time to wait ,
I wish you well .
For the tins are stacked all neatly in a pile ,
for the poor and needy ,
and the strange old lady ,
down the road who has a cat ,
or so I’m told .
And so the sweet melodies of heavens songs rendered to thee ,
of storms to come ,
thunder and rain ,
for nothing will be the same again .
For when everything is gathered in only then the storms begin ,
if I may borrow a poem or fable or so I’m told !
An old man waits for the service to end ,
he never goes in ,
he has no friends ,
but loves the hymns and awaits the winds ,
the leaves rustle ,
as rain drops fall .
He smiles as a gust of wind nearly blows his hat off .
So as autumns leaves start to fall ,
on golden carpets with reddish glow ,
Cold winds and rains fall ,
a fore runner to ice and snow ,
yet with infant glow ,
off we go in our Sunday best we go .
To light fires that won’t burn out ,
amid the fiery cold .
.
