"The bells of St. Brigit's are calling tonight," she said, as I tucked her blankets in around her.
"Their mournful tolling rattles my bones," she whispered. I held her hand, my tears falling.
"It was an early morning, a fine spring day--my beloved came home."
"In a box he lay, his uniform so carefully pressed. He is still my love, nonetheless. He looked only sleeping, yet did not respond to my kisses.
My tears would not wake him."
"My heart went into that grave with him. Yet here he stands, that we may walk together once again."
She held out her hand, and I pray they wander still.
“The bells of St. Brigit’s are calling tonight.” Use that with 100 words. I was reading about the Battle of the Somme, and this just sorta came with that.