The Mill, 1964, by Andrew Wyeth via Magpie Tales
Crow calls thump a hollow chest
toll the bell, echoes disturbs the river
Beyond the press building it flows
Shivery black water absorbing the sun
Mausoleum mask framed by panes
Porcelain eyes drift with weather
While worn wood exhales
a century's worth of apples breath
Raise the tankard, quaff the cider
Try to slake the searing thirst
besetting a fractured heart
As her footprints blurred with snow
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.. This is really quite amazing.
ReplyDeleteYour honor me, madam , with your kind words. Thank you for reading!
Deleteyour poem placed me there admidst the sounds and sadness
ReplyDeleteWonderful , Irish, just wonderful ~
ReplyDeleteI can smell the scent of apples from the worn wood... Wonderful. "As her footprints blurred with snow" I adore that ending.
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DeleteSomething about the light on the wood in that picture, and the thought of an apple shed. I'm glad you liked it.
DeleteYour stuff always has this story telling quality about it.
ReplyDeleteStory telling seems to be in my blood :)
DeleteJeez is this ever nice. I love the line " While worn wood exhales
ReplyDeletea century's worth of apples breath"..a wonderful poem.
Lovely thoughts, thank you!
DeleteLove this.
ReplyDeleteA well told tale…and only three verses to tell it.
ReplyDeleteNicely crafted.
=)
Thank you so much :)
ReplyDelete