An old mill stands at the edge of town
inviting stories of long ago,
when harvested grains were locally ground,
and turbines powered by water flow.
As I stand by the rushing creek,
and train my gaze on the sturdy mill,
I hear the rushing waters speak
of days gone by before all stood still.
Lost in halls of childhood hours,
recalling memories of weekend drives,
to a country mill for sacks of flour,
to mix, knead and leave to rise.
How quickly old traditions fade
Each generation sees changes unfurl
Yet old stone mills endure and stay,
Solid reminders of an older world.
I wrote this poem in response to The Secretkeeper Weekly Writing Prompt #31 (prompt words: Town, Train, Fade, Hear, Hall). The mill at the edge of town is shown in the above photo, taken in February. After I wrote the poem I discovered that the notion that it was a flour mill was pure fantasy on my part. Though there are many old flour mills across Ontario, Babcock Mill was built in 1856 for grist planing and making baskets!
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