The mists part to reveal the ruin again. Roofless; empty arches once filled with stainglass; choked by the encroaching trees and consumed by the downy grasses of the Moors.
What transpired here?
Did banished queens live out their exiles here? Did matrons seek shelter from loveless marriages gone horribly wrong? Or was it yet another of a legion of village chapels, where people gathered for Sunday service?
The ruin remains silent. Its dull-gray facade offers no confessions. It’s enigmatic appearance out of the mist reveals no clue.
So it remains. Until the mist closes in once more. Until the moor reclaims it. Until nature runs it’s course. As it must inevitably do.
gray sky
echoes of bells
across years
for Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt: Spectral #writephoto
Frank J. Tassone 
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