The Windmill

The Windmill by Neil McCall

The windmill died,
sail by rotting sail;
too far from London and the money chase,
racked by every gale
which scoured deeper cracks
in bricks now too far gone
for hideaway des res
or restoration project base.

I saw it there;
unmarked on any map
down byways where we sought the wintering geese
hardly a tourist trap
in summer, let alone
in ice-bound Lincolnshire
of dreary wold and fen.
I shall not return here; rot in peace.