Little that I recognised remained.
Square skeletons of bare foundations ran
by gaping gates hung wired to sprained,
complaining hinges. Wrecked netting fencing strained
the shifting sand.
The packing shed had gone. Rank hanks of weeds
choked drying greens. Racks leaned aside. Screens sagged
in sun—bleached pleats from splintered eaves
where they ﬂuttered in a weather-shredded frieze
of grey, stained rags.
Yet still the windmill ran. It ’s rusted vane
tracked the erratic wind. Loose pump-rods swayed
pendulumed inside the rumbling frame.
It stood alone — the only thing unchanged
in that decay.
No doubt I should be pleased that chance preserved
my squeaking link with history and allowed
me recollecting time. I’ve heard
they’ve pulled it down since then — such eyesores serve
no purpose now.