slate

As you sat with me in silence
in the field of mouse eared hawk

I heard the industry of the quarry:
the rumble of the digger shaping it

the call of the gaffer, and the mason
counting out the marks of time

and lads moving the slate sheets
like gravestones on the standby list

for unplanned funerals, when far
reached journeys came home to rest.

The birthstones of roofs, abandoned
filed in sharp rows, pushing heavy

against the whitewashed stipple
of the Ironmongers, in competition

with spinning rods, rainbows, beach balls
and the resentment of the curlew’s plea

sadly calling, heavy, rain-soaked
all mud-slick in a smothering breeze.

I watched you walk towards the sea
and count the hours, in rings of rippled calm

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08/06/2016 · 5:07 am

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