A couple of weeks ago Bronwyn found this little chap nestled on the doorstep of her studio (which used to be my father's surgery), beside the house.
But who left it there? Was it a cat? The lawnmower man? Someone laying a hex?
Certainly it seems to be missing a head. It did remind me a bit of an old poem of mine, from my first book City of Strange Brunettes (1998):
We built a man of slates, and after years,
revisited, the rock had grown a face.
(... The lake dissects bird-craniums;
tree-roots wrestle midden-stones for space.)
We counted on the winter to preserve us.
Spring runoff leaves no craquelure to trace.
Jack Ross: City of Strange Brunettes (1998)