As a small child I watched the water wheel
broken petel clamped to a rustic blade,
corn-coloured cloud of youthful Summer day
chasing a passing shadow in a field.
The old whitmore mill still dormant and sealed
gushing weir of soft ivy wades,
by a river where foaming ripples fade
furniture lodged on dirt tracks that shield
the crumbling mount of glazed slate.
Glossed reflection in stream of ragged brown
between a tree top a bird song breaks,
trunk of bark littered this shallow ground
in night-time air Snuffy Jack’s ghost does wake,
smock drifting in the breeze like a panting hound.
MJ DUGGAN.
I love it.