(04 October 1943 / Germany)

Behind The Old Mill

Purple heather
by the old mill,
the waterwheel
turning impatiently,
it never rests.
We play,
pale children
in rags,
sharp stones
blue glass
and thistles,
darkish green.
Bare feet are cut,
a thousand scratches
of annual initiation.
Behind the barn
we stand as boys
and hatch new plans
for summer days.
Courageous words,
so full of hope,
how soon we will
be touching
those sassy,
feisty buds of Spring.
There would be welcome,
hearts would stumble,
school blouses bare
small hidden treasures.
And with each year
that passes since
a chiffon curtain,
youthful pink,
descends to change
those memories
until they suit
the pride of men.

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Comments (6)

The secret is to make it the last word (I like to have the last word) , drop H (and not to use it as dropp or drop) . H
ok, the p is showing up double
dropp (sp) sorry..............
Herbert, I'm here to read and enjoy poetry. Nothing more....nothing less. Hopefully I can dropp a comment here or there that somebody may appreciate. I'm glad to hear you do. I try to treat people with the respect I hope to receive from them. Never doubt my sincerity. Mary
Thank you Mary. I really like your comments on my poems and appreciate the wisdom of your words. I had been a bit unsure of things and that phase has passed thanks to you. Best wishes H
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