The Old Windmill: Kelvin Iris

His body
like an old windmill
and groaning
in the wash
of the wind
Made of
hand hewed
and iron nail
after glowing red
in the bellow
heated coals
of the blacksmith forge
it is a beacon
for the weary
and worn.

His heart like
the teasing
filling the four
tightly woven
white linen sails
firmly tied
by carefully twined
hemp rope
to a cross
of kindly carved
local pine;
His task
to allow
the whistling wind
to slowly turn
the coarse chiseled
local wheat
into flour
a little less fine
than ours.

The sound
like the crunch
of footsteps on snow
only constant,
a high pitch.

His task done,
he will tie up
the sails
that turn
the pulverizing rocks
and retire
to some
quiet place
where only
the murmur
of the creatures
of the night
and conversation
of the wind
are heard
and lay
in the true night
where the stars
still shine
and the moon
still glows.