The Cider Mill
I always knew the cider mill was across the road,
Down a little ways from Grandma's house.
This day, it must have been October;
The afternoon sun was shining hot;
The side of the road was dusty.
A steady sound was chug-chugging through the air
On top of the sweet dusky smell of over-ripe apples.
I went to have a look.
The mill itself was a squarish box of grey weathered wood.
I crept along the path worn in the grass
Alongside the building and peered around the edge.
Two men looked up in surprise.
One was at the top of a machine with a crate of apples;
The other was bent over at the bottom,
Holding a shiny bucket.
Everything about them was brown,
Their sunburned faces and hands, their clothes,
Their flyaway jackets and felt hats jammed hard on their heads.
They froze still in their poses.
"Is that cider?" I ventured pointing to the few drops
Still dripping from the spout into the bucket.
The smell was really strong back here!
"Oh, yes!" They both jumped to answer.
"Would you like some?" Not waiting for a reply,
The bottom man put a rusty tin cup under the spout.
The other one pushed in some apples at the top.
Out spurted bubbly brown juice!
It fuzzed around the edges of the cup.
I took an experimental sip. It was totally good!
Sweet and warm like the sun! I drank it all.
The men were talking now.
How was school and how old was I.
And I talked, too, how much cider do you make?
Where do the apples come from?
Why don't you make it all the time?
Then I couldn't think of anything more to say
So I said goodbye and they said come again,
But I never did. I don't know why.
It might have spoiled it.
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