Run of the Mill

As on a bitter night,

The mill-race, swollen by wild wind and rain,

Drives on the huge and ancient oaken wheel

To spin too fast,

Until, shuddering on its axle,

It tears free, shaking the whole edifice apart,

So, dear my father,

On that frost-fingered dawn

When *wisht hounds’ melancholy cries

Spoke to your trembling soul,

Your old heart cracked and broke.

  

© Gill Dunstan

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*Wisht hounds, a Devon name for curlews.  In some parts, a flock of curlews were considered to be a presage of death.