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Mill
A word on a map lured me
To a hedge gap on a C road,
To a long-deserted broken track
Three parts swallowed by a wood.
To this place, this place on a map
Where a beck bites back
From a brown glass glide
At the winstone's edge,
Then spills its weight and flash
In a deep down-fling
At a drumming pool.
This place, where trees and ferns and moss
Collude in damp secrecy
To drown the snagged reef walls
Of a derelict mill.
A mark on a map drew me;
No mill there now but still
Its clean grain feeds me.
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