Wednesday on the Rosary of Summer

At St Nicholas Churchyard at lunchtime. Troubled skies threaten rain, but deliver instead premonitions of autumn. Wind disturbing and disquieting. The kind of day that seems to bring the noise of playgrounds on the air, a phantom-breaktime in spectral schools.
The light under the trees is dark, and the air is suffused with a damp and drizzly sorrow. The taste of the breeze is that of a curious desolation; a gravelly path, lined by scrubby bushes at the base of an unremarkable mountain under lukewarm leaden skies. Perhaps that school again, and that playground, -but when the children have gone, or where they have never have arrived.
(littered with damp leaves and splashes of rain)
Em and myself crouch on a tombstone opposite the church. Down the path from us sat on a bench, are three street drinkers playing some nostalgic song on a tape player. Something from the 1980s I can't quite recall.
The churchyard has always been here. There have been an infinity of lunchtimes like this melancholic hour. The churchyard might remember them all but I doubt it. They are probably lost on the wind, where they drift like the noise of those distant and sorrowful playgrounds.