A Study of the River

My poems, prose, and pictures of the river near my home.


4. The Mill



Raucous shouting, screeching, cheering,

Yelps of delight and bursts of chiming, ringing laughter,

Chubby cherub hands brushing hair from their brows,

Sweat dripping: it tastes of childhood and carelessness.


Rain flowing from the ceiling,

A ceiling of overcast blue skies, and the hope of tomorrow,

Children twirling beneath with arms held aloft,

Craning forwards over iron railings to look onto the river,

Squinting up their long lashed eyes, in a struggle to unlock the water's mysteries,

Feeling the wind against their faces: an unfathomable breeze.




Children standing, kneeling silent,

Listening to the stilted speech of machinery,

Chubby cherub hands bleeding pearls of scarlet red,

That tastes of homelessness, and penniless, and working to live a life that isn't worth it.


Grain pouring from the ceiling,

A ceiling of mandatory brick, made from toil, and plight, and pain,

Children catching the grains with open palms, grinding it into bread they'll never taste, only knead,

Scrunching up their faces as their head pounds and their heart aches to the rhythm if a tune that they've heard too many times. 

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