Crossed by the coffin stone and ancient inertias, with abundant spring oozing to be known in the grasping space between the here and there, this solid sealed mausoleum doorway leads straight into the vaults of Hades.
At the commencement of a new venture, ask the local dead for help. Trying to work up a rapport with my companions in this space if not this time, I realised that there is a three-part mid-hill palace of the dead not five minutes from my home, where my daughter used to play as a child.
Where children play they will mark the place you fell
A local hero, a working woman stronger than an ox, who spied on the rich and reported to the idiot son of the idiot King in return for cake is laid there with her family. Dogs run there now, gothic teenagers gather to smoke, the lost sleep droning with the dead. In summer peals of mirth from the grass infused with hard spirits are heard mixing with the three-ten bells. In wartime the locals roused to pluck a Nazi plane from the sky and bring it to earth. Their descendants arrived to hang the pilot from the churchyard yew.
I asked for success in my new mission and protection from the pestilence. In return I offered hot tea today, promised rum, tobacco and seawater on my next visit. A barking dog seemed to think that this was fine.