Poetry Challenge Day 11: an object

The Old Windmill

In the distance,
a sentinel slumps weary and forlorn,
a solitary watcher with nothing left to see.

Once,
its vanes reached outward, always seeking
the wind’s embrace, swiveling and swooping
like a hawk hunting thermals on which to soar.

Once,
its body sang with a joyous heartbeat,
pumping silver liquid, harvesting and gifting,
spilling out precious life essence across the land.

Once,
its eye beheld endless horizons,
rolling verdure, speckled by cattle,
hides gleaming like midnight sun.

Once,
it watched over countless children,
future’s inhabitants playing at its feet
in shimmering water.

Now,
its body bleeds rust, its melancholy vanes
hum intermittent notes, its dead eye wistfully watches
over spiky-brown fields desolate and deserted.

No offspring to keep,
no purpose to fulfill, proud sentry no longer,
a dusty relic. Just the old windmill listing in the wind.

© 2009 Lisa G. Beaudoin