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 |  (Hopefully) 1 Poem a week for 52 weeks |
| Windmill Three windmills in my younger years live in my memory the first was in a song of mice who sang in high voices squeakily of their happiness in living in a windmill in old Amsterdam multiplying mice in the mill, I wonder if they are there still? A miller named Windy in a working pink mill lived in Camberwick Green a puppeted place of childhood TV whose stories were told by the late Brian Cant "Here is a box, a musical box" and we were spell bound as the wind blew the mill moved with distinctive sound The last was in Stafford and didn't have sails but my best friend dreamt that from there I made an entrance in a golden lamé suit, such as Elvis had worn performing Pop Muzik, (yes spelled just like that), I cannot remember if I wore a hat Three windmills long remembered and each brings a smile. |
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