The Devil’s Millstone


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.



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