The Tower Old white stone rising haughty in its elder brilliance having been once-dominant in its

periodic bellowing, calling out still, but now really part of the background. It is seen looking down from its god-like perch with a long reach, graying through the seasons like the old man that it is, still proud and beautiful, weathered ornate carvings rising stiff and square on once-polished stones. It is a contrast to the fluid new green growing around it, unmoving above the lush foliage of thick trees with vibrant fractal leaves dancing with wanton abandonment, slim and unclothed arms waving under the sun in pagan delight and hiding the congregation in shade below. Seeing over the village green, even out past the town, the column watches, an omniscient spire rising to the heavens, relaying the prayers still made inside like a modern-day cell tower. In the park, as sheep wander in the background a younger woman opens her eyes and shrugs in the shadows. She has done her part, she believes. If only, if only God would text back... that the message got through.

© 2012, The Jotter

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