Sheapard's Church, by Rick Flint

We wandered down the avenues of leaning stone, where whispered prayers floated up to the heavens. Where vanished souls of yesterday stood in heavy silence. Now the empty graveyard speaks in hollow tones, inhabited only by a ghostly wind or the beleaguered cry of little Jenny Wren. Stone on stone where masons toiled to build God’s house, Shepard’s Church stands as ever, a monument to a lost time. The centuries of old, of generations born only to be forgotten, rolled up into a thing called the past.