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.