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.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
