The Old Windmill

A stream forms, falling slowly from the channel leading to the pond in a secluded valley. The water is carried by the relentless and powerful winds that move the blades of a mill. The pond had remained still and serene for most of the night, but this morning, the powerful force of the wind promised to unleash a storm on the horizon. So far, the old windmill has been steady and sufficient to pump water from the lowlands.

Fluffy pillow clouds, like a flock of innocent sheep grazing in a dull sky, float above and cover the hoary morning with a lukewarm, summery blanket.


A grackle, its wings folded, a study in grace, strolls calmly along the sidewalk just below a row of cypress trees, its ebony feathers shimmering and glistening in a tenuous dawn light. As my shadow passes by, it takes flight under a black-and-white monotonous rainbow, towards the light but constant rain that is pouring down from the skies, landing on the ledge of an abandoned house, its wings flapping nonstop until it reaches safety.


...The Old Windmill persists, a Quixotic giant engaged in a relentless tug of war with the dubious Air. But suddenly, unexpectedly, and in due time, the Old Windmill moves its upper limbs in an impending defeat. Its focused power simply no longer flows or breaks through the canal gate any longer (it struggles within, reflecting an invisible conflict).

The battle of The Old Windmill is a tense requiem ballet, a mechanical and unmelodious lullaby, out of sync with the beautiful fluidity and the seemingly soulful breath of another grey, and windy morning.



Poetry by Golden Minotaur The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 562 times
Written on 2025-09-04 at 10:23

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