An Old Grist Mill
Hiking a dry creek bed, at the mountain's base
I happened on an old grist mill, a prisoner
of time, serving life in isolation.
A few rotten boards scattered about
was all that remained of it's dilapidated Norse wheel
The broken millstone lay silent on it's bed
the thick green ivy walls, closing in.
Guarded by giant pin oaks and river ash,
yet one could easily see evidence of visitors.
I was trespassing, not on land
but on another time, another's dream.
What was most likely, once a busy road
for horse drawn wagons had become
a clearing for utility poles and wires
I did not enter but I stood there
envisioning yesterday. mountains on both sides,
creek of fresh running water and the
serenity of this lush mountain valley.
Then cynically muttered,..."Progress"
Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2018