Fans the sweat heat coming through the ripped door
Cracked feet dusty soled upon the beaten clay
The wheat all bent in rows and swaying as if reapers
Worked in time together strung in lines, but only breeze
Tickles all the feather ends of rye and oat
Tools once moiled and troubled dissolve in rust
Poppy coloured- reddle once used for marking
Stirred of whey, ochre and bullock blood.
She does not scythe or bind the stooks
Nor bites the wheat to test its starch
Rats cough and grunt along their paths
The timbers lean heavily, yawn and list
As ergot spores explode on summer nights
Whilst a low huge moon explores with fine hard fingers
The cracks in slats, what’s left behind…
Is softly winnowed dancing motes and lumpen sacks
The husks and heaps upon a rotting rooted miller’s floor.
Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved.