The path crosses a small bridge to the backside of the kirk. Butter burr, bramble, nettle. Islands of tarmac raised high and dry from the rain that scours this track. Tottie stones roll, slip underfoot. Rheumy gravestones lean, shuffling slowly away across the fields to the sea. Dust lifts, blooms, unsettles a two shilling coin. I pick it up, turn it over and over in my fingers. 1951. Then and now. A wee gift.