Stories of the Gristmill
My grandmother sure liked a good story,
so did her mother, and her mother Flori;
who settled in New France,
coming to take a chance.
These ancestors who built a wood gristmill,
down a rambling country road, still;
where a great turning wheel makes water spill.
Once, I went to see,
had lunch under a tree,
birds chirped as I drank tea.
It is now a historic site,
but oh- it took a fight;
happy, it was restored to my delight,
and now it stands proud in old charm glory.
I love the sound of water cascading,
with thoughts of civilization fading.
Once this mill was busy,
with hard work not easy.
Gosh, those huge millstones were really well made,
because all through the long years they have stayed.
Sad in time- the gristmill began to fade,
used as a chicken coop;
an art studio cute,
then, was forgotten and mute.
For years it was just falling down,
the wood going to muddy brown;
now, people visit the mill and the town,
all year long this glade of peace - invading.
________________________
May 23, 2018
Poetry/Rhyme/Stories of the Gristmill
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1025-448-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
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