Catching your breath on
the stiff climb, you
come upon it.
The Beacon.
Modest by monument
standards, a small
hollow pillar of
worn old sandstone.
Graffiti, names
a century old,
adorn the cracked
surface like a
fading moss.
Is this a warning? No,
not an invading army
from across the Border.
But locals, their
love’s initials cut,
to mark their slow
passage across
life’s pages.
‘I was here 1902’.
Not a great year, but
she was with him.
Perhaps, the real enemy
the Beacon watches
is Time itself. Slow,
patient, dissolving
floods of years, that
carve the stone into
a myriad shapes
and holes.
And then, come Easter,
battened to its face,
a huge white cross
of wood, looks out
across the town to
mark the death of One
defying time, who lives
again in faith.
End of ‘Behind the Fence’