I wanted to find the Devil’s Millstone
in the hills of the buckled world, a place
that I recalled fondly, a place of past.
So I convinced you to come with me.
We felt the air trembling at the crossroads,
stood in a field of yellow faces and
pondered, carried on, carpe diem cliche
only because it is true.
The rain started gently, tempting us on
we picked sour, firm blackberries and chatted,
leaping up twice in fright when dogs rushed us
from behind their fences, canine racists
hoping to grind our bones to make their bread.
At the turn we felt more water than air
and so we turned left up the hill, laughing,
drenched all the way up to the little station,
and waited to see what came.
Rode a tiny train carriage back to town,
ate lunch, returned home that same Friday and
watched the Sun break free of her drapery.
We never did return and you won’t now.
But I would be happy to go back to
searching for the Devil’s Millstone again,
to honour the happiness the old man
gave us there, high in the hills.