Ye can haurdly see it noo,

it’s sae owregrown wi gress an weed

an grupt bae moss.

Yet its greyspeckle face still

keeks oot frae the side o the road

lik an auld man’s.

Nae mere haundy-hing is this.

It’s art for aa its modesty,

its granite stane

an cursive script giein the

traiv’ler sumpin braw tae mind while’s

catchin e’s braith.