Rough

Rough

On the cobbled lane the stones lie rough,
their edges worn by centuries of tread,
each fragment telling stories tough,
of carts that creaked and feet that shed

the dust of market‑day and rain,
where lorry wheels have carved a scar,
and children’s knees, in playful strain,
press palms to grit, feeling far

from smooth‑cut silk or polished glass—
the world’s texture, unrefined, austere.
Yet in that grit there’s strength to amass,
a stubborn grace that won’t disappear.

So let us walk the uneven ways,
embrace the scrape, the bump, the grate,
for roughness shapes our toughest days,
and carves the strength that shapes our fate.