I was alone in the village church quietly thinking.
Normally in these churches there is a musty dead air.
But as I sat there the atmosphere started changing.
I felt a great sense of people here.

The old church was no longer empty, here were my brothers and sisters.
They were here pilgrims from one thousand years of history.
A Saxon theign and Norman knight, Catholic priests, and Puritan ministers.
Their voices silent now, their presence felt, their life a mystery.

But one life is remembered.
On a board a tattered photograph is hung.
Great War soldier Private Isaac Killick is certainly remembered.
To him and all the others a little hymn can be sung.

Isaac was only 18 when not in these green fields but in some far away ditch he died.
The atmosphere no longer heavy, the church really did feel empty now and the wind sighed.