Worship

Twilight's blessing; soft shades kiss the meadowlands adrift in blissful silence. Windows glow like welcome beacons hailing ships on storm-toss'd oceans sailing safe to harbor's rest, as villagers repose, so soon to sleep. At the edge of town the church is still. Strangled gravestones mark in mute remembrance struggles of an age gone by. Ivied walls and crumbling steeple, signs of venerable decay, where kinfolk meet to greet their Gods and beg forgiveness for their many indiscretions. A haven for the wealthy and the ne'er-do-well alike, it welcomes differences of race and creed. All worship embraced in its sheltered precincts, all sinners accepted according to need.