Only Us

We are islands in a field where the only source of light comes from the moon. There are no buildings, no cars, only that lone rock above our heads that has witnessed everything yet never uttered so much as a word in return. Kissing your lips and then the wet bark of the tree closest to us, I remember a story my grandad told me as a child. It concerned a tree in acemetery somewhere in St Albans, and how if you managed to run around it twelve times before the bells stopped chiming the midnight hour, then a ghost would rise from the ground and shake your hand. Linking my fingers with yours and doing my best to run despite it being so slippery because of all the mud from the recent rain, you tell me that it won’t work because it’s only that particular tree in St Albans…