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The Grist Mill

The stone spun slowly to a stop
as it has many times before,
to be dressed one more time again;
sharpened furrows where flower sifts
like the sweat from labor's brow.

The echoes of the wooden gears -
now silent through the trees ,
where their chugging always rang.

This time the runner stone lay still
upon the bed, like the old miller
at day's end, except not to rise again.

The gears, once perpetual, now motionless,
and the sack slung at day's end
will bear the weight of yesterday's
Loves and Labors ...

Copyright © | Year Posted 2018




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Date: 6/25/2018 2:56:00 PM
When reading this first on FB, it inspired me to give your contest a try! (you always inspire me to strive!..thank you for that !!) Just now seeing your top winners, and I'm blown away at the results of your contest! I'm grateful to be among them with my simplistic entry! Thanks once again !!
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Date: 6/7/2018 10:35:00 AM
To be honest, I heard the word 'grist' for first time, but enjoyed your poem. Trying the contest. Best wishes.
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Date: 6/4/2018 4:13:00 AM
As always, very well written Craig. Enjoyed. T.J
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Date: 5/22/2018 3:10:00 PM
I could envision the milliner stone so clearly in my mind’s eye in your poetic verse, Craig! I wrote a more metaphorical write for this subject...hope you’ll like it!
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cornish Avatar
craig cornish
Date: 5/22/2018 3:16:00 PM
Thx, and good Laura, I love the creative edge, and you usually do it justice.