Windmill turning in the wind

Windmill turning in the wind

Windmill turning, wind blows fast,

Metal groans, the bolts hold fast.

Sky’s gone dark, no time to speak,

A shutter bangs, a weathered creak.

Grass lies flat, the fence leans low,

Dust kicks up and tries to go.

Wires hum, the roof tiles shift,

Something gives, then something lifts.

No one here, no steady hand,

Just rust and grit and spinning land.

No grain, no haul, no waiting line,

Just wind that cuts like twisted twine.

The road is cracked, the gate hangs bent,

Tools left out, their purpose spent.

No boots, no voice, no diesel sound—

Just metal turning, round and round.

A plastic bag gets caught and flaps,

The door’s off hinge, the frame has gaps.

The hill once buzzed with work and weight,

Now it just sits andis abandoned to its fate.

Still it moves, with nothing near,

A shape the wind forgot to clear.

Spinning still with no one there,

A past thing of beauty now no one cares.