Slate Quarry
T Tom Billsborough
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The light descends
Nearly supplanting
The sculpting shadows.
The Clouds have donned
Their surplices!
Choir!
Suddenly today
The ghosts of yesterday
Hover over the incipient
Ruins by the abandoned quarry,
Big-bellied, carrying
The weighty volumes of memory.
And the blue-grey slates,
Small stacks, discarded volumes
Of a disused library,
Of a redundant, now silent history.
The light descends
And only the white clouds witness.
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