It feels lovely. I watched a brimstone fly past and mused on how good the turning of the year feels, the passing of seasons, the cycle of growth and decay, the renewing and refreshing of nature. Those muddy tyre ruts are already scarcely visible. Nature erases the past. And that’s just great!
But read the stones and you see how determined we are to stop the clock. Forever, always, everlasting, never, eternal. In grief we reach for absolutes and defy the years.
Or perhaps the impression is just because the older stones are harder to read, thanks to moss and fading letters. Their messages are muted by the same force that pushes daffodils into the light and turns pansies and primulas to the sun.