Miniature leaves shaped like flower petals spiral down from trees whooshing in the wind. The dry things crackle as they land on an army of saturated lime- and florescent-green mosses clambering over an ancient tomb slab. A weathered skull and crossbones peek through the green swarm like a drowning man thrashing to keep his head above water. Sun lances through this Easter Ross jungle in the yard at Nigg Church. The flora pull whole tombs and grave markers into the earth. I see crazy angles and entropy, a slow-motion swallow, a return. There is the creepy feeling of something much larger and misunderstood hanging in the air.
Somewhere in time a man chiseled this visage of death as a message to those who would come after, as a reminder of the one buried beneath. This was meant to win the battle against time, so what was the message? Is it so simple I’ve disregarded it? Moss snakes through the skull’s eyes, and through the trees I catch the odd sparkle of sun on Nigg bay. I trail my fingers along the crossbones and moss. It is hard and spongey, soft everywhere. These are the remains of a green man.