I sat on the hill and watched the interplay. Young lovers thought the priests couldn’t see them, whispered sweet nothings that followed them into the ground. Hands clasped them together and all the rest fell away. Love was a gesture, no different from the motions I made to keep back the crowd as the others picked through their bones and pieced their story back together.
(Inspired by news of the 14th century skeletons uncovered in England this week by University archaeologists, their hands still clasped across 700+ years. It will be fascinating to see what people can find of the pair, the stories they’ll come up with, even if some will find it a bit morbid.)