The Old Mill

The gristmill stands in the same place now,
That it did so long ago,
Water tumbling over the dam,
Once made the big wheel go.

Red sunset behind tall towering trees,
My thoughts wander back in time,
Dredging up memories of the mill,
When it still was in its’ prime.
 
The water yet flows, the building stands,
In calm resignation there,
A passing bird, the whirr of wings,
Cuts through still evening air.
 
With weather beaten fading walls,
The windows void of glass,
Weeds growing up beside the door,
The path disguised by grass.
 
The big wheel rests after all those years,
Of milling golden wheat,
Some paddles gone, while those still there,
Hang down as in defeat.
 
With blue gray moss covered walls it waits,
  Resting on laurels there,
 like some tired, grizzled, little old man,
Who has no time to spare.
 
The time will come when both are gone,
 Not even a shadow will cast,
‘Cause nothing remains to be seen,
Just memories link to the past.
 
© Loree (Mason) O’Neil

 

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