Pakenham Windmill © 08 Beryl Dyson

So still the morn, no gusting gale,
No bouffant cloud or misty trail,
Silhouette on hill beside oak trees,
A windmill stands bereft of breeze.
Stout and stalwart this black frame,
A home for millstone, hoist and chain,
White arms outstretched in expectation,
Awaits for wind its circulation
To set in motion cogs and shafts,
Turn of spindle, upward draughts.
The impatient miller heaves a sigh
And looks towards the turquoise sky;
With sunrise comes a gentle sough,
But not enough to move a bough,
Before these windmill sails can glide,
They have to wait for turn of tide.
He also knows late afternoon
There’ll be no wind to turn to turn the stone.
A sudden blow, some groans and squeaks,
Eye of the wind the fantail seeks,
Sails revolve with ease and grace,
The work begins with rhythmic pace,
Grist for grinding carried in,
Flour bags filled and tied with string;
The Miller sings, has peace of mind,
As golden grain, God’s gift they grind.