Description

The Dying Post Mile

A post mill stands across the way,

Devoid of sails that flay.

It rests on the hill where the wind blows still,

But the mill has nothing to say.

Naked and sad it endures, minus works,

Taking no blame for chores that it shirks.

The turning of wheels fine grinding of meals,

And wearisome struggle that irks.

Gone is the bustle of men,

Catching the wind, as and when.

They worked when it blew everyone knew,

That wind stirs at its own yen.

Storm rain and sun have undone,

The labour of love that once won,

The millers delight, he would work day and night,

Milling wheat for bread and sweet bun.

Little remains of the mill,

Now a place for rubbish to fill.

With woodlice and spiders, the only insiders.

Leasing the mill on the hill.

 

 

Restless Ocean

Waves pound the strand tossing white spume,

Like flying angels jostling for room.

They tumble the shingle with shattering roar,

Stealing away the petrous shore.

The salt wind muffles gulls frenzied screech,

As they chaffer in flotsam, launched on the beach.

Ravening alms washed in on the tide,

They skirmish for jot, showing no pride.

First come, first served, rules the restless ocean,

As tide follows tide in perpetual motion.