Place To Non Place

An impacted tooth of flint and we are away – across borders, through shadows – failing even to acknowledge what stands now, in its place. Take a hand and rub fingertips across the stone stubble surface – forgetful that this is that location where ghosts still pass. Its significance is nothing more than endurance, and yet it still holds a quantitative power - a healing process. The scars of stonemason work, lacking in the uniformity of brickwork. This is something not made to blueprinted plans or even the casual sketch of architect. This is something that stands. This is something that stands- calloused and barnacled by its own abrupt angles. There is the stake of the stonemason in this, the willfulness of action – a sudden cut – and then made to fit in its own harmony. Let the rubble we gather and cement together hold fast. It’s enough that it lasts every passing touch, every casual glance. Its history apparent, stoic – it requires no plaque and demands nothing, other than that it is left to furnish the dark with rumours. The willfulness of action gathered into a stand-fast, shadowed secrecy.