He sat quiet in the grey and jagged wasteWith fingertips bruised in the riot of slateWhen the east wind knife was ragged in marrowAnd the truce of today in his strife with the rainWould doubtless be broken tomorrowNo need to look as he came through the doorNo words, no work, no hopes to soar,Just wait, wait for the drying wind.In the kitchen she waited,In the kitchen she sat,In the kitchen she listened to rain, In the kitchen he died as she sat by his sideOne cold, dry easterly day.An epitaph rain accompanied the corpseTo a congested family graveAnd there in due course we recorded the dateOn - God forgive us - A slate.