Stepping out from Combestone Tor
across moor hardened by a western wind
Horn’s Cross stands alone.
A bruiser of hammered granite wounded with lichen
its half formed arms reach out
surrendering to a cold sky.
Monks stopped along the Maltern Way
threading their way through graves
to Buckfast honey and garden beans.
Tellers counted their flock, cows rubbed flanks,
now walkers lean against its iron backbone,
pausing for half a sandwich.
This is not a marker of a beginning
nor an end, but of constant passing,
where searching doesn’t end in stone,
but to an undistinguished path
filled with voices from the past
guiding us from behind.