The Mill

The Mill

The mill’s grinding orbs press and bite the grain

chewing and rubbing between the turning stones

husks vent up into the North where the air is dry

then lifts it on a spiralled dance then to lie,

a fine gritty veil drawn over land once verdant and much loved.

You there in the North, come back to the South

where the flour waits for the baker’s hand

the leavening for the sweet kiss of heat and time

The best bread is made with a firm hand and a blasting heat,

so let us break bread together

leave the tooth of the stones to grind another’s grain

and let love lie in open fields

for a gentler softer rain.



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