Today, it being a blustery, sombre sort of day, I invaded the local cemetery, for I ain't afraid of no
ghosts weeping angels. You know what this means, don't you? Oh yes. You guessed it. Cemetery photos!
I met a lass, not long ago, who had once worked at a cemetery taking photos of headstones &c, because apparently once the family stops caring for the grave, the caretakers are not allowed to halt the decay and all that history crumbles away into nothing. Which is the natural course of things, and part of what makes cemeteries a cool place to spend a rambling kind of hour.
Halfway through my walk (which didn't actually come close to circumnavigating the cemetery; I think I managed to see maybe a third of the grounds, at best), I came across a mausoleum set atop a hill. It had a roof of red-hued stained-glass scales, so that looking up was like looking through the heart of a flower, or the underside of a young, unscarred dragon.
I never did find the name of the lady buried there, but she was loved:
And she was … synchronous? Is that the word I'm looking for? Well, whatever else, she was young:
All I could make out of the fellow buried here was that he was the second son of someone or other. Not actually a dog, as I at first suspected, but I'm guessing he rather liked them.