Thick beams of spring sun saturate the lawn around crumbling Dunkeld Cathedral. Moss inches up the trunks of towering oaks, and a herd of precious yellow-capped flowers climb up the moss. I lay belly down upon the earth and bring in the scene through my camera while dark age warriors and monks mirror me beneath the ground. The aroma of the fecund turf and the whispering of the River Tay as it sidles past hold me immobile. The warmth of the sun is a hug from the unblemished March sky. Down river, a man in hip waders outlines the flicking of his wrist with a filament of fly-fishing line. The fly careens onto the river’s surface where the movements of fish leave geometric whorls. There is space between the sounds and smells and sensations that elevates them all from footnotes to constellations.
Alone amid the ruins of a 13th-century cathedral and prostrate on the earth watching new life grow on the bones of old life, an understanding of the desire to wrap our remains in the earth flowered.