I look at those old dry crumbling walls
And search for the hands that set each crude stone
With seasoned art, with sweat and skill
Although they're lost in rubble now
With centuries, long since passed,
The craftman is gone...his labour's lost
To the scorn of neglect, beneath the moss
I'll find his callussed hand...
I'll frame his dry stone wall
And let the ghosts of his laboured art
Breathe free before the last stone falls.
