Angela Elias Poet Lyric

Windmill

The plum dark sky is bleeding out
To apricot across the plain,
Where thirsty bossies dream about
The sudden, heavy smell of rain.
The old windpomp is standing still,
Its rusted iron painted gold,
Alone upon a quiet hill
As all the desert air turns cold.

Deep down beneath the ironstone,
The water waits, so cool and still,
While far away, a breeze is blown
To find the wheel upon the hill.
They live apart but somehow know
They share a secret, quiet thread
A patient strength that starts to show
When all the blazing day is dead.

And then it comes, a gentle touch,
No sudden storm, just evening air,
That doesn't ask for very much
But finds the metal waiting there.
A heavy creak, a stubborn groan,
And then the wheel begins to slide,
Bringing the water up alone
From where it used to have to hide.
 
It spills like silver in the night,
To make the stone dam pool and gleam,
Reflecting back the starry light
Just like a long forgotten dream.
And in the dark, it whispers clear:
The things that belong together
Will find a way to draw near,
No matter how dry the weather.

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