Ghostly Bells at Burford Ring Out For The Executed Levellers

 

 The Chimes at Midnight Burford Bound by ice Burford slumbers, sound beneath the orb of a hallowed, haloed moon. Milk-white is the moonlight that spills over the frozen fields. In the churchyard, the shadow of the ancient church tower stretches across the monuments of the sleepers under the stones. Pale wisps of mist creep from the ground and linger in the dips and hollows. Just as the hand of the clock moves towards twelve it pauses and seems to jerk backwards. High in the bell tower, the screech owl shifts its weight from foot to foot. Then, shattering the silence the great bells of the church bells ring out, cry out, summon forth something hidden. Under their eiderdowns, behind their curtains, the people of the town stir in their sleep. Yes, they hear the ghostly toll and grip their sheets close to their chins, but none will look from their windows to see what stirs. For they know that the door of the Norman bell tower is securely locked, the bell ropes looped over their hooks, the clappers of the great bells, still and silent. And, if you parted the curtains and thawed the frost on the glass with your hand. Would you see shadows pass across the church walls? Hear the names of three Levellers being called, Cornet Thompson, Corporal Perkins and Private Church, then the sharp crack of gunshots. Then, the hand of the clock lurches forward and suddenly all is still. Silence slips out among the bale tombs and ice rains from the frozen branches of the trees, but in their beds, the people of the town lie awake and shiver. The flame of the candle on their bedside table flares blue, gutters and fails and darkness smothers them. 

 #Ghosts #Folklore #Burford #Levellers