The softness of the stardust

This Sunday morning daybreak glorious . 

Sophie glows bright orange in the sunrise. She then turns pink. This makes me laugh. A rainbow coated PONette. We meet the farmers wife. She's been on jury duty this week - the highlight judging a dispute between two fishermen over damaged lobster creels. She rolls her eyes in an unspoken sign that this was boring. There's a whisky tasting next Saturday in the village hall. Then there's a communal afternoon for planting daffodils. The St.Andrews Day dinner is nearly sold out - 'Shall I put you down for two tickets ?' Preparations are already underway for the Carol and Watch Night services. 'Get there early. It'll be standing room only'.

Armistice Day a week away. More and more folk in town are starting to sport poppies in their buttonholes and it's time for us to do the same. We've not seen poppies for sale in the shops but there'll be some in the church. Sure enough, there's a tray of them and a collecting box on a table by the end wall. The church porch door is firmly locked but we'll come back later. Through the window I can see that the red wreaths around the war memorials are already in place. There is a sense of martial duty in villages here - just as there was in France. Local families remembering great uncles. The baptismal font has a wooden cover with a carved owl sitting proudly on top. Is it a symbol of wisdom ?

On our way home we see that a tombstone in the churchyard has toppled over in the recent winds. The inscription is hard to make out but reads :'We are wondering if the angels will dance around and sing on the softness of the stardust in the garden of a King'. There's something innocent about this. It must be the grave of a toddler. There are so many emotions hidden in this choice of words.