The Gristmill Wheel

Deep in the overgrown hollow of the woods the gristmill wheel still turns where memories once stood, splashing water lightly on each rung some worn and gone as it circles the breeze with creeks and aching yawns. As long as the stream continues to flow in its speed it spins fast and slow dependent on the water feed and rains may fall occasionally on demand to restore hidden ledgers and scales of time stands. No one stirs, no hidden shadows still walk or can be seen, times have changed and distant factories now glean the corn, the rye, the wheat from the outstretched fields, gold glittered shades yellow silk, maize crushed quietly to yield. Narragansett White Flint Corn husked and dried now snooze no longer freed to the damsel as it shook down to the shoes now the chaff is separate, screened and sifted but it is only a historic memory lifted, savored by few who recall the old days finds with dreams and images recalling simpler times, spin and turn the gristmill wheel of days long passed like the revolving earth on which these human lives are cast.