He was older than the river that had forged a path from the sea, curving through the landscape and inspiring painters and writers for more years than he could count.
He was older than the clocktower that the townsfolk lived their lives by, and older than the cathedral that they had built with callused hands.
He was older than the songs they had sung, passing the words from mouth to mouth as the generations moved like grains of sand through fingers.
They had done this all in his shadow. Resting their weary legs beneath the yew tree’s watchful gaze.
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