Crumbling stone constitutes the trace of a building: a place of pilgrimage which housed worshippers of the unseen behind closed doors now lies open to the sky.
The pilgrims flock up the mountain to attain photographs, lingering in admiration of the remnants of architecture rather than what it was made for contemplating.
Respectful silence and echoing murmurs of prayer are replaced by idle chatter, reminiscing on past affiliations.
They stand in the crumbling archway for aesthetic, with no intention of entering.
The ocean crashes and tumbles within the frame of the arch.
*
Intermittent patches of smooth stone suggest parts of the chapel that no longer possess even crumbling walls to mark them.
A series of uneven dips worn into rock imitate stairs deteriorated by centuries of exposure to the harsh wind singing about the cliff edge.
Elsewhere, moss grows in the shape of a cross, stretching its fronds into a perfect crucifix of dirt. An empty outline of a rectangle develops beside it.
The space around them is empty and pale.
*
A cube sits in line with the residue of the building. Letters are inscribed into its rough surface.
B … D … D …
Some have crumbled away to render the rest of the word lost. A name? A title? Its meaning turns into dust and gravel, kicked and trodden into obscurity.
Flecks of paint cling to it, echoes of colours too faint to distinguish pressed into carved lines wearing flat.
*
Graves cut to emulate bodies lie empty, filled with neither bones nor corpses but rainwater and decaying detritus from overhanging plants. The pungent scent of rotting leaves wafts upwards and is swept away by the palpitations of the wind.
There are no crosses in the shafts at their heads.
No names identify who once laid there, forever listening to the waves and the seagulls.
They stare vacantly upwards.
A single rose floats in each one, placed by an unknown visitor commemorating the missing occupants.
They have settled where the hearts would rest: red, paling pink, white stained brown by the muddy water.
I peer into the head-shaped hollow.
My face reflects in the pool within.
*
The slabs of rock constituting the steps leading to the chapel are chipped and broken, scratched by claws or fragments and worn down by feet. The dips in their centres are displays of where thousands of people have favoured to tread.
Two elderly visitors sitting on the lower corners of the walls remark how peaceful it is as a chainsaw runs in the background and a dog runs barking across the paths below.
The sheer drop off nearby them sways with the motion of plants clinging to its sides.
In time they move away, the barking becomes faint, and the chainsaw stops.
*
Perched on the edge, looking down to smell the sea, I count the things I can see that people have dropped off the side, the climb too steep for them to hope to retrieve what they have lost.
The waters stretching out away from the crumbling wall I sit on glimmer under clouded sunlight.
The people of the missing graves once had a beautiful view for eternity.