Slate

On the quiet hill where old roofs sigh,
A slab of slate lies low beneath the sky.
Grey as a winter’s breath, its surface cool,
A canvas kissed by rain, a mason’s tool.

It bears the marks of time’s relentless hand—
Faint veins of quartz, a silent, steadfast band.
When chisel meets its heart, it splits apart,
Revealing layers that recall the earth’s own art.

In schoolyards past, children traced with chalk,
Their hopes and dreams upon its dark‑backed walk.
Now on the roof it stands, a steadfast shield,
Guarding hearth and home, a silent field.

So slate endures—humble, strong, and true—
A stone of Britain, old yet ever new.