As I walked along a park pathway the pleasant atmosphere of the bright spring day was pierced by a sound from not too far away. It carried across the air so as to seem that it was originating from right next to me. It was a bell. Each time that it clanged into life the air was still in its wake as the reverberations passed. Each ring followed by another, moments later. The question was what was the bell being rung for? It was a church bell for sure, but it wasn't ringing the time because as this thought crossed my mind the bell rang for the fifteenth time. Nor was it loudly proclaiming to the world that a wedding was taking place, for there was only one bell ringing the same note, over and over again. The bell was announcing the passing of some poor soul who was now very near to the church on their final journey into eternity.

The sound of the bell had shattered the calm serenity of the afternoon. The joy departed the air. Everyone recognised the sombre sound and fell silent. Whether or not out of respect or because the atmosphere became one of depression and morbidity I could not tell but all was still now. In an instant the bell had changed the nature of the whole afternoon. I glanced across to the church where there were numerous black figures milling around, some waiting and watching others going straight into the imposing gothic building which through years of pollution had had its ancient stonework blackened. In parts the soft sandstone walls had begun to erode and there were recent restorations obvious by their colour. Much more devoid of soot unlike those which had lived through the industrial revolution, and the ensuing years of heavy industry in the area. The honey colour of the stone had a warmth about it which was fitting for the soft warmth of the sun that day.

I don't know how long I stood watching the mourners; it could not have been long though for the bell begins when the procession is due to arrive. Sure enough the sound of horses' hooves soon became audible clattering along the tarmac road, the gentle jangling of their reigns accompanying the sound. Then two tall black horses entered the sight, black plumes erupting from the tops of their heads and swaying in time to the dignified speed. The black hearse shone in the sun, its glass panes spotless allowing a clear view of the coffin within and the masses of flowers adorning it. I watched the sight until the party had entered the church to join those who had arrived before.

I carried on my way until I came to a bench empty except for an elderly looking man who I joined on the bench. I sat and wondered who it was that had passed away, my thoughts turning to their family. I glanced down at the space on the bench between the man and myself and noticed that he had placed a newspaper down and his trilby hat on top of it. The paper was open to the obituaries page and I look for any sign as to who might possibly be in the church right now. It was an off chance but there was indeed an entry for the funeral that was taking place. It began, as these things do, "It is with regret that we must announce...” always regret, I suppose though that it was human nature. People are always respected once they're dead. And the death is always regretted publicly. Privately was a different matter. But whose passing was to be regretted today? The hat, frustratingly, lay across the name of the deceased. I read the other visible parts of the notice. It was all the usual sort of thing. Loving husband, parent and grandparent, greatly missed, time and location of the service cause and date of death and then the part which I always had difficulties with, whether or not the family were accepting flowers and where to send any donations. I often found it an affront that people should attempt to prescribe how mourners should show their respect. I always thought that the choice should be the individual's to make.

In the time that I had spent reading the notice an organ had begun to play inside the church, its pipes bellowing out thunderous notes which, out here, were quite faint. But clear nonetheless. The organ played several times through the service which lasted for quite a while. In the meantime I had been sitting and watching the world go by. Watching the people and admiring the surroundings. I looked up as I heard hooves stirring again and noticed that the man next to me had gone but left his paper. I looked to see who it was who was now on his way to the ground only to be met with the sensation that my heart and stomach had just plunged fifty feet. It was me the bell rang for. Me the mourners mourned for. Me the horses drew through the streets. Me.