Once sacred, always sacred

There are some woods and ancient commons near where I live, criss crossed by busy roads on the edge of a town once described as "the centre of smug Britain". Tucked away in a little visited corner where the electricity pylons march there is a little gem, an old Muslim cemetery built in 1915 for the soldiers who fought for the British in a war that was far from great. The graves have been removed and there are the usual mindless defacements of "BNP" and "NF". But the place remains haunting and beautiful, calling through the trees on a sunlit June evening.

You can't kill the sacred. Even when it is crumbling it retains the hallowed dignity of its own mysterious history.