THE OLD MILL
cool fog roses dawn,
lifts from roots that clutch the
where water once sped the ponderous
The fog by stronger light cut from
green below cliffs
where vaults a spider who knows only -
that yesterday's webs do not further.
Where gone to what purpose --
the wood that was to heavy metal
fitted to stone?
Grain grown, made bread?
Gone like a misty marvel laid down
upon the slow pool, like the last ox.
© Carlton Godbold 1987