Structure

Two thousand years of rain erased the hands that tilted the post, but the angle still points somewhere. A nine-centimetre rod of wood leans at sixty degrees in Kilkenny peat, waiting for a roof, a fence, or a warning. Milling scarred its skin, yet it resisted decay longer than every kingdom built around it. Structure is not a building; it is the shape of absence, a hole in the world that remembers being held.