The Windmill
There
stands a windmill
ghostly
upon yonder hill.
Clattering
Shattering
the peace
of the rolling waves
of Corporate grain.
The spacious skies
now filled
with scudding dreams and phantasms
dreads and dooms
of those now gone.
Still
The windmill still clatters
in impotent age
its rod
ever eager
to lift and hold
once more
the sweet, hidden waters
but fittings are broken
gaskets cracked
it can only go through
the motion --
loving a well
long gone dry
For ages it seems
winds have driven
the windmill
to its fixed purpose
War
or Peace
Love
or Hate
Belief
or Not
It performed
as designed
above the homestead
now empty
Windows staring
dead
cracked
shattered
into the chill
of bleak November sky.
Window dressings torn
Curtains threadbare
shrouds
which cannot hide
the loss
the pealing paint
or
faded daisy print wallpaper
or
broken dishes on the floor
and
There
a single crystal glass
of a wedding pair
stands testament
to faithful
Love.
The windmill screams
in protest
against
the loss
of the sweetness
it can no longer hold
yet its cries
ring metallic
now
lost
blowing in the wind.
