When I wander round the museum I help look after, I get drawn into the artefacts. The Inchyra Stone was found near my family farm so it has a special connection. I've painted this to set it again near its reedy riverbank.

The Inchyra stone stood as witness. It watched the Tay swell and recede, watched boats nose the shore, watched children learn the river’s moods. It marked a place where the worlds thinned, where the living might hear the dead if the wind was right, and the dead might follow the salmon’s path back into story.

When the ploughshare struck it centuries later, the stone did not resist. It had waited long enough.

Now it rests among other stones, in our care, under careful lights. Yet if you stand quietly before it, you may still feel the pull of Imchyra: the soft churn of water against bank, the cold breath of mist, the sense that this was never only a monument, but a conversation between river and people, between memory and earth, between what was finished and what was left deliberately undone.

The Tay still runs.

The salmon still return.

And the stone, though moved, still listens.