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The Old Millstone

A fog rolled into the leafless hollow
Fallen and faded of glorious color
A withering rug of molding mass
Growing dark is dank November
In the midst of a life in crises
So lies swollen shut
My eyes are cried with cold
Blurry is first glimpse of snow

Now water running clean and sober
Down streambed past a boulder
Scored with ancient glacial scars
Across its smooth face bored
As stories born shiny and wet
So waits freezing still
My breath clouds into my face
Mixing with the fog that brews

And now, across a squeaking bridge
Floor of sagging wood grows moss
Hiding rot from within its mass
Cracked and rusted its paint peels
And loosens old skinny nails
So goes aging time
My heart grows weaker while
I pass the old millstone by
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Nov 2012
About this poem:
Once an old mill stood near an old covered bridge..and all that remains of the mill is the old millstone that now rests half buried in the streambed...below the falls...under the bridge...down an old dirt road late this fall creates my mood in free verse.

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Comments (9)

niah9
wow Yankee.....this is a great poem, one I could read several times, and still feel the power.....Kathyteddybear
Ladybee42
This is just wonderful Yankee, I just love your descriptions the imagery is wow! There are little moments in the poem when the images could be of a face or a place and I just loved this idea. Double meanings in poetry just enrich the whole piece.
Cool write sir thumbs up

purple heart purple heart
Fellsman
Hi Yankee

Although there is a thread of desolation running through this narrative, there is also a wealth of terrific metaphor which transports the reader right by that stream alongside you.

A fine write

Bill wine wine
Poetnumber1
Quite a swirl of fine metaphoric use,it pulls the reader in.Really enjoyed reading this Yankee.

Now water running clean and sober
Down streambed past a boulder
Scored with ancient glacial scars
Across its smooth face bored
As stories born shiny and wet
So waits freezing still
My breath clouds into my face
Mixing with the fog that brews

And now, across a squeaking bridge
Floor of sagging wood grows moss
Hiding rot from within its mass
Cracked and rusted its paint peels
And loosens old skinny nails
So goes aging time
My heart grows weaker while
I pass the old millstone
wine
gnj4u
Hi, Yankee4you,
A fog rolled into the leafless hollow...A withering rug of molding mass... There is so much dark, dank, decay in The Old Millstone's verses. Were it not for the wonderful imagery and the hope of water running clean and sober, my heart would surely sink through the squeaking bridge's Floor of sagging wood.
Yankee4you
Thank you so much Kathy...handshake
Yankee4you
LadyB-- Ahhh the imagery is a latent talant for the back country rural folks. You should read some Rowland T. Robinson, a Vermont writer from the 19th century. May I suggest you browase the following link...

@field([email protected](ABK2934-0068-68))::
Ahyra
Love the way you describe, and the metaphores. Very nice to read Yankee4u teddybear
Yankee4you
Bill... The end of all feels very desolate...as the woods shut down...and the old berries ferment on the bushes....and the birds that stay hunker down.....I'm glad you picked up on the mood.....wine
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