At East Quantox Head

The church of the Virgin at East Quantox Head is hewn from the very stone of the promontory.

The rector awaits the approach of the funeral cortege.
It is to be glimpsed through the coffin splint in the porch.

The Court House sleeps.
The stables are abandoned.

One woman and her dog walk the coast path where we have walked. Below, on the shore, the slabs of slate bearing the imprint of millennia are exposed by the receding tide.

Ammonites are revealed in the rock.
The aeons call out in remembrance.

I notice a magic spectacle on the beach before the wind. Ancient traceries of vegetation in a split stone. The imprint of long ago bivalves.
I, we, are diminished by this history. Our egocentricity joked at by the winds of time.

Outside the church, set in the wall, is a Mass dial. The iron rod that would cast a shadow to announce the time of day has long ago corroded into insignificance. So shall we.