The sound of bees is comforting up here on the slate. It approaches in the same way as the clank of stone, or voices in the distance. The sound is with you up here, it enters your space, it’s by your side; but its maker could be anywhere.
The bees are busy as the world turns and the sun sets. One…two…three move around me: in front; to my right; overhead; zipping behind. There is of course a connection in their industrious nature to that of the men who busied themselves up here until 1969.
Bees quarrying nectar, men quarrying stone.