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| The Windmill |
| Circa 1925 |
I stand where weathers beat my breast,
Where every wind turns round my sails,
I stand where summer sunbeams rest,
And where the winter flings his gales.
High on this hill I see below
The ripening ears of golden corn,
But when the winter zephyrs blow,
I look upon this scene, forlorn.
My arms, they seldom rest they turn
With every tidal wave of wind,
Deep in my bosom I discern
The grain that I must slowly grind.
I work from morning till the eve,
My years of toil unending are,
But quiet winds of night will leave
Me still beneath the evening star.
Lo, I stand out against the sky,
Where the horizoned purples leap,
And as the shades of evening die,
I slowly still my arms in sleep.
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| Terry Brewer |
Reston, VA |
| Friday, March 03, 2006 |
| This poem was the winner of the Ouse Valley Poetry competition in 1986 - Reg was very proud of that. |
| Posted At 7:15:12 PM |
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out of 1 votes
