By the Broch, outside Keiss, there stands a memorial.
Without words it recalls work past about past,
Tells the tale of one gentleman amateur's fascinating fascination.
a story more explicitly told up the road in an old school,
In a series of snippets of pleading letters.
One side of a conversation divorced from response.
He had his people dig, and others build, each time,
a memorial to amateur archaeological endeavour, his endeavour,
writing large the human frailty that seeks permanence in face of death.
He seems to have actually done a fairly sensitive job for his time and training,
But I can't help but wish I had the money to throw up a permanent memorial every time I think I've done something worthwhile...
